


Post Mortem

by Johnlock-Deductress (KeitanKetsueki), LourdesDeath



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Horror, M/M, Supernatural - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-05-29
Updated: 2014-08-30
Packaged: 2018-01-27 00:17:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 32,086
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1707917
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KeitanKetsueki/pseuds/Johnlock-Deductress, https://archiveofourown.org/users/LourdesDeath/pseuds/LourdesDeath
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Sherlock is shot in Magnussen’s office, it looks like he’ll pull through, but he suddenly suffers from a morphine overdose and dies. John is left to pick up the pieces, until he learns that Sherlock’s death was no accident. John decides to solve his best friend’s murder and receives assistance from the most unlikely source: Sherlock Holmes, himself.</p><p>INDEFINITE HIATUS</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Requiescat

**Author's Note:**

> I'm really sorry that this fic hasn't been updated. Pretty much everything I had for Post Mortem (probably more than 100,000 words in total) was on my flash drive, which died several months ago. I have not been financially able to get the data recovered and I don't know when I'll be able to do so, which means this fic may never get finished. While I don't consider myself to be a member of the Sherlock fandom anymore, Johnlock-Deductress has said she'd finish it for me, but she can't do that without all the plot work and writing I had on my flash drive. Thank you so much for reading this fic and supporting our writing. I do hope it will be finished someday. 
> 
> Post Mortem will not be a pro-Mary fic. Please do not read it if you dislike such things. Thank you!
> 
> Requiescat – Latin for ‘rest in peace’. 
> 
> Also the title of a poem written by Oscar Wilde after the death of his sister:
> 
> Tread lightly, she is near  
> Under the snow,  
> Speak gently, she can hear  
> The daisies grow.
> 
> All her bright golden hair  
> Tarnished with rust,  
> She that was young and fair  
> Fallen to dust.
> 
> Lily-like, white as snow,  
> She hardly knew  
> She was a woman, so  
> Sweetly she grew.
> 
> Coffin-board, heavy stone,  
> Lie on her breast;  
> I vex my heart alone,  
> She is at rest.
> 
> Peace, peace; she cannot hear  
> Lyre or sonnet;  
> All my life's buried here,  
> Heap earth upon it.
> 
> -Edit 16 July 2014-  
> I had planned on updating this on June 29th, but my laptop's motherboard died and it took almost three weeks for the repairs to finish. That, paired with the fact that I had (rather stupidly) not backed up my fic or my notes on a removable drive, means that this will take a little longer. I'm now aiming for the 29th of July to post this, but I guess we'll see what happens. I have also fixed the three errors I found in this chapter, which will, hopefully, make it a better read. Thanks for reading!

 

John stood over Sherlock.

It was strange to see Sherlock, who was usually so in control of his body and his surroundings, unconscious, his body connected to tubes and wires to monitor and assist his bodily functions.

He’d been told it was a miracle Sherlock survived at all. Not long after they had reached the hospital, he’d flat-lined. The doctors had given up.

And yet, here he was, alive—barely.

John didn’t know how long he’d been there, just that they had arrived in the middle of the night and that the sun was now shining through the window. He’d run the events of the evening over and over in his mind. Sherlock had run off while John was checking on Janine. When he’d finally found Sherlock, he was on the ground, a bullet wound in his torso. Magnussen was there, too, but it was clear that _he_ had not pulled the trigger.

John’s medical training kicked in and he managed to keep Sherlock as stable as possible until paramedics arrived. For some reason, Magnussen had decided not to press charges on them, but John didn’t have time to consider what that meant.

Sherlock was his first priority; John couldn’t solve the puzzles without him.

As if awakened by that thought, Sherlock’s fingers twitched.

John moved closer to the bed. Sherlock’s eyes were fluttering. “Sherlock?” John knew that a familiar voice could pull him into consciousness. “Sherlock, wake up!”

Sherlock opened his eyes. After a quick scan of the room, he opened his mouth to speak, but only a rasping breath passed his lips. He coughed a few times.

“Take your time, Sherlock.”

Sherlock caught his breath, looking at John. “Mary—”

“Mr. Holmes, you’re finally awake!” a nurse said, her shoes squeaking as she walked from the now-open door to the monitor displaying Sherlock’s heartbeat.

John looked at his friend. His mouth was shut, and John could see his jaw was clenched. It was unlike Sherlock to keep information from him, even if others were around.

The nurse started to examine Sherlock, taking notes on the clipboard that had been hanging on his bedframe. “How are you feeling?”

“Fine.”

The nurse looked up at John, “Doctor Watson, we’re just going to check on Mr. Holmes. If you’d just step out, we’ll take a look at him.”

John nodded. “I’ll be back soon, Sherlock,” he said, walking around the bed to the door. He looked back and saw that Sherlock had a strange expression on his face. Had it been anyone else, John would have called it guilt, but this was _Sherlock_. “Tell me when I come back, okay?”

Sherlock just nodded and submitted to the nurse’s examinations.

Standing outside, John realized that Mary probably didn’t know where he was. He pulled his phone from his coat; it immediately started buzzing, a text from a blocked number showed up:

_Mrs. Watson, Mrs. Hudson, and Detective Inspector Lestrade have been informed of what transpired during the night.  
-MH_

John smiled in spite of himself. He’d never been so pleased to be under constant surveillance. Satisfied that everyone knew, John decided to find somewhere to get some food.

\--

Feeling better despite the disgusting tea that was only outdone by the sandwich with which it came, John began the walk back to Sherlock’s room. As he was walking past a staircase nearby, he saw Mary coming up. “Mary!” he called.

“Hey.” Mary looked like she hadn’t slept in a week. John wondered how he looked.

“He’s only bloody woken up,” John told her. “He’s pulled through.”

“Really? Seriously?” John wondered what Mycroft could possibly have told her that she’d be so shocked that Sherlock was alive.

“And you, Mrs. Watson,” John said, smiling, “You’re in big trouble.”

“Really? Why?” That look of genuine shock remained on her face with what John thought could be a touch of terror.

“His first word when he woke up: Mary.”

\--

John stopped by the loo before returning to Sherlock’s room. When he got there, Mary was already in the room. John looked over at Sherlock. He’d been sedated while John was away.

Mary walked over so they were next to one another and leaned her head on his shoulder. “He’s going to be okay, isn’t he, John?” she asked.

“Of course,” John replied. He wrapped an arm around Mary’s shoulders. “I’m sure he’ll be revealing private information about the nurses by tomorrow, and kicked out altogether within three days.”

Mary chuckled, which was a huge improvement on that look of terrified shock.

\--

Lestrade and John visited Sherlock later that day, after John had gone home for a few hours for some sleep and a quick shower. When John got to the hospital, he found Greg putting out a cigarette. 

“Sherlock’s going to give you hell for that,” he said to the detective.

“Yeah, but I’m sure he’s bored out of his wits by now, so I’ll let him do some deductions on me to give his mind something to do.”

They laughed at that, then went inside.

As they walked down the hallway from the elevator to Sherlock’s room, John saw Lestrade pulling out his phone.

“You know they won’t let you use that in here,” John told him.

“No, I’m just going to record him on it.”

“You’d better not sell copies of this one.”

Greg laughed. “Don’t worry, John. You’ll get a cut of the profits this time.”

John grinned at that, opening the door to Sherlock’s room, but stopped as he looked in.

Sherlock’s IV had been pulled out, and blood was pooling around his left arm. The call button was held weakly in his right hand. John rushed up to his bed and began to shake Sherlock.

“He isn’t breathing! Get help!” John yelled to Lestrade, but he didn’t look to make sure that his command was heard. He slapped his friend’s face gently, “Sherlock! Sherlock, can you hear me?” There was no response.

John grabbed a corner of Sherlock’s blanket that didn’t have any blood on it, applied pressure to the wound, and lifted Sherlock’s arm so that it was almost perpendicular to the floor. He then pressed his fingers to Sherlock’s wrist.

Suddenly, a team of doctors and nurses descended upon John and Sherlock.

“I’m his doctor,” John said to them. “His pulse is weak. His venous catheter has been removed.”

John allowed the hospital staff to take over. He walked to the door, looked back for a moment, then left the room. Lestrade was in the hallway, his eyes like saucers.

“What happened?” Lestrade asked, his hand clutched around the phone that had been a source of humor only a few minutes before.

“I don’t know,” John responded. “He’d stopped breathing. The monitors should have alerted the nurses.”

Lestrade shifted back and forth on his feet, his eyes travelling from the door of Sherlock’s room to the phone in his hand. Finally, he looked up at John. “I’d better call Mycroft. He’ll want to know what’s happened.”

John nodded absentmindedly.

After a few minutes, an orderly asked John to vacate the hallway, so he made his way to the waiting room near the elevators.

Greg found him a while later. “I spoke with Mycroft. He’ll inform their parents.”

“What about Mary and Mrs. Hudson?” John asked, although it felt like the question came from someone else.

“He’ll talk to them, too.”

John nodded. Something was very wrong, but he couldn’t place what it was. Somehow, it felt like the world had shifted, so it was no longer following the correct path.

“I’m sure he’ll be fine,” Greg said, but there was no conviction in his voice.

John lost track of time, so he had no idea how long it had been when the nurse with the squeaky shoes entered the waiting room and asked them to follow her. She didn’t lead them to Sherlock’s room, but to a small, unoccupied room in the opposite direction. She closed the door behind them, then gestured to some chairs. “Perhaps you’d like to have a seat.”

“I’d like to know what’s happened to my friend,” John said.

“I think it would be best if you sat down.”

“I am an army doctor,” John said to her unwaveringly. “I served in Afghanistan.” He jerked his head towards Lestrade without breaking eye contact with her. “He’s a Detective Inspector with Scotland Yard. I really don’t think we need to sit down to hear what you have to say to us.”

She took a deep breath, then nodded. “I’m afraid something went wrong with the machinery. Your friend was administered an overdose of morphine. It caused his throat and tongue to swell.”

“There are treatments for morphine overdoses, aren’t there?” Greg asked.

“They were not effective,” the nurse responded. “Mr. Holmes went into cardiac arrest. He is currently being kept alive by machines. We don’t know how long he was without oxygen, but there is a good chance that his brain is no longer functioning. We’ll have to do some tests to verify this.”

Lestrade looked at John. The doctor’s silence was concerning.

Finally, John spoke. “Can we see him, please?”

The nurse nodded.

She led them to the ICU, which was on another floor. She led them to a large room with curtained areas jutting out from the walls. She opened the second curtains from the end, revealing Sherlock.

“I’ll let you have some privacy,” she said, stepping back out, closing the curtains behind her.

John stepped forward and began to examine Sherlock. After several minutes, he stepped back and looked at Greg.

“Well?”

“It’s definitely him,” John responded.

“Christ, John, I can tell that’s him! I want to know if he’s going to wake up or not!”

“It doesn’t hurt to verify that it’s really him,” John said expressionlessly, “especially knowing that he’s faked his death before.”

“He wouldn’t do that to you again, John.”

“I had to check.”

“So, _is_ he going to wake up?”

A deep breath preceded the response. “I doubt it, but I don’t have much experience with comas.”

Greg nodded. “I’m going to call Mycroft again. He’ll want to know what’s happened, if he doesn’t already.”

John didn’t respond as Lestrade left the circle of curtains.

Mycroft must have known already, because, when Lestrade returned ten minutes later, the older Holmes brother was with him. John watched Mycroft walk to stand at his brother’s bedside; a pale hand came up and touched a still hand on the bed. Mycroft spoke to his brother quietly; John couldn’t hear his words, but he realized that he had never actually seen the Holmes brothers touch one another before. It seemed almost intrusive to be present for such a moment between them.

Mycroft’s attention pulled away from Sherlock. He sighed quietly, collecting himself, then looked back up at the other two men in the room. “I have with me Sherlock’s personal directive. He made some decisions regarding what should transpire if he is confirmed as brain dead. Of course, if he is brain dead, regulations state that he must be taken off life support.”

John’s brain didn’t seem to be able to process that statement. He suddenly realized that someone was saying his name, and he looked up. Greg was staring at him, a strange expression on his face. “John, you alright?”

“I’m fine,” he responded. “I’m fine, just a little overwhelmed.” He looked at Mycroft, who, John noticed, was even paler than usual. “Sherlock was fine. He was going to pull through.” John didn’t mean to sound accusatory, but he couldn’t help it. In any other situation, he would ask Sherlock to solve this mystery, but Sherlock was dying, so Mycroft would have to do. “What the fuck happened?”

“A formal investigation will be opened. I will take care of it personally.”

John looked down at Sherlock. “This is real, isn’t it?” John tried to ignore the fact that his voice was breaking. “He’s not going to come back this time.”

“He would never do something like that to you again,” Mycroft said. John must not have looked convinced, because Mycroft continued, “You may take samples from us if you would like to verify that this really is Sherlock.”

“I don’t want—” John stopped himself before he could start shouting. “I believe you,” he looked into Mycroft’s blue-grey eyes. “I believe you and I have no interest in taking DNA from the two of you. We both know you could alter the results of a DNA test, anyway.”

“I could do nothing of the sort,” Mycroft replied, trying to sound reproachful.

There was a buzzing noise. John pulled his phone out and looked at it. “It’s Mary,” he said. “She says she feels sick. I’m just going to make sure she’s okay.” He didn’t wait for an answer before leaving.

Lestrade dragged a hand through his hair. “I don’t know how John’ll get through this,” he said to Mycroft.

“He’s done it before.”

“This is different.”

“How so?”

Lestrade looked down at Sherlock. “Before, John had hope. He knew that some suspicious things had happened, and that there was probably a good reason for Sherlock to fake his death. This time, there’s no real reason. Magnussen’s not the kind of man who would make him do that.” He looked at Mycroft. “There’s also you.”

Mycroft looked shocked. “ _Me?”_

“How long have we known each other?”

“As long as you’ve known my brother.” Mycroft was being purposefully evasive.

“Nine years, Mycroft. I’ve known you nine years and I’ve never seen you look like you do right now.”

Mycroft looked down his nose at Lestrade. “What exactly do you mean by that, Detective Inspector Lestrade?”

It was difficult to find the right words. “You look sad and… and scared. Like your whole world has crashed down around you and you don’t know what you’re going to do.”

Blue-grey eyes turned towards the bed. “That isn’t an inaccurate assessment.”

Their conversation was interrupted by Mycroft’s phone, which chirped a text alert. He checked it, and his eyebrows snapped together.

“What’s going on?” Lestrade asked.

“My people have been trying to find out what happened to cause Sherlock to receive that morphine overdose.” He looked up at Lestrade. “They found something.”

“It wasn’t just a malfunction?”

“No.” Mycroft stared at Sherlock for a moment, then looked back to Lestrade. “Would you come with me? I may need your assistance.”

“What about Sherlock?”

“I have someone coming. They can inform John of where we are… and protect Sherlock.”

“What do you mean, ‘protect Sherlock’? Why would he need protection?”

Mycroft’s hand gripped his phone so hard Lestrade was momentarily worried that it would break. “It would seem this was not an accident,” Mycroft murmured.

The curtains were opened by a young woman.

“Good afternoon, Margaret.” Mycroft said to her. He held the curtains open for her, then stepped out. Lestrade followed him.

They took the elevators to the third floor, then walked to the room Sherlock had been in before the overdose. As they walked through the door, Lestrade noticed that Mycroft’s face fell back into his usual look of “The British Government”. Several people occupied the room, taking fingerprints, collecting physical evidence, and photographing the room. A man in the corner was taking inventory of several bags of evidence. Lestrade saw that one of the bags contained bloody sheets.

“What did you see when you entered, Detective Inspector?”

“Well, I was only here for a second. John realized something was wrong, and I went to get help.”

“Did John tell you anything?”

“Just that he wasn’t breathing. I could tell that his IV had been removed.” Lestrade looked over to the bed, and noticed the heart monitor was being dismantled. “What have they found so far?”

Instead of answering, Mycroft went to the forensic technician who was cataloging the evidence. They spoke for a moment, and the forensic technician left the room. The others followed, the last of them closing the door on the way out.

Lestrade gave Mycroft a look. “Are we talking about something they shouldn’t hear?”

“Those whom I employ are aware of the need for discretion.” He walked to the evidence inventory and examined the bag containing the sheets covered in his brother’s blood. Mycroft breathed deeply. “Someone tampered with the machine, causing it to administer a lethal dose of morphine. Somehow, they also stopped the machine from alerting the medical staff, even when Sherlock stopped breathing.”

“There’s no chance of it having been a malfunction?”

“I’m afraid not.”

“We both know your brother has no shortage of enemies.”

Mycroft’s eyes lifted from the evidence bag. “Yes, but few possess the knowledge and intelligence necessary for this.”

“That’s true. I assume Scotland Yard won’t be investigating?”

“You assume correctly. While I have full faith in _your_ abilities, Detective Inspector, I can only imagine what Sherlock would say if he knew his own murder was investigated by Scotland Yard.”

Lestrade grimaced at the word ‘murder’. “Will you be heading the investigation?”

“Yes.”

“Aren’t you a little too close to this case?”

“Yes, but I am the best equipped for criminal investigation. Sherlock was, despite my best efforts, privy to many state secrets. The culprit may have been after those secrets or politically motivated.”

“I would’ve expected you to tell a better lie than that.” Mycroft’s withering expression amused Lestrade, but he knew better than to tease Mycroft any more. He thought for a moment. “What about Magnussen? Sherlock might have stumbled upon something in his office that he wants to keep hidden.”

“Magnussen would never be so careless as to risk someone finding sensitive information in his office. Besides, this is hardly his style.”

Lestrade couldn’t argue with that.

There was a knock at the door. “Enter,” Mycroft called.

A forensic technician opened the door for John, who looked slightly more coherent than he had been while in ICU.

“How’s Mary?” Lestrade asked.

“She’s fine. It’s probably just stress.” John looked around, “What’s going on?”

Mycroft explained the situation to John, who took the news well, considering the circumstances. “I must request that we keep this between as few people as possible. While I’m sure there will newspaper reports of Sherlock’s overdose by tomorrow, I would prefer if the information that it was deliberate was not reported.”

“Magussen probably knows it was deliberate by now,” Lestrade said. “We should assume that it’ll be in his papers by tomorrow.”

“Yes.”

“I’d like to tell Mary and Mrs. Hudson what really happened,” John said.

“I’m sorry, John, but that’s out of the question.” Lestrade winced at Mycroft’s uncompromising tone.

“They have a right to know!”

“We would be placing them in unnecessary danger.”

“If we tell them, they can protect themselves!”

“John,” Lestrade could feel that John was about to snap, so he tried a different approach. “They already know Sherlock was shot. Telling them the shooter is still on the loose will warn them. You just said that Mary’s stressed, which is exactly what a pregnant woman doesn’t need. Why don’t we let her have some peace of mind?”

John could hardly argue with that.

“What about your parents, Mycroft?” Lestrade asked.

“They will not be informed, either. I want to avoid them being targeted, as well.” He thought for a moment. “My mother is also likely to become homicidal if she finds out.”

Lestrade looked at John. Once again, he looked dead on his feet. Mycroft also seemed to notice. “John, why don’t you go home?” Mycroft asked, his voice softer than it had been before.

John looked conflicted.

“Go home, John.” Lestrade said. “Go home, hug your wife, and get some sleep.”

“What about Sherlock?”

“I have requested that he be placed in a private room; an armed guard will be present at all times,” Mycroft replied.

That convinced John. “How long do we have before he’s…” John allowed his question to trail off.

“Four or five days,” Mycroft answered. “Several tests will be performed to verify that Sherlock is definitely brain dead. His personal directive requests that both of you, Mrs. Hudson, and myself are present for his death, if possible. He also didn’t want anyone else present.”

“What about Mary?”

“I’m sorry, John. It was recorded before Sherlock met her, and he was quite categorical in his demands.”

“I’m sure Mary will understand,” Lestrade said, trying to cut off John’s temper before it could flare again.

“Yeah.” John took a deep breath. “I’d better get home.”

“We’ll let you know if we find anything.”

John started towards the door. “Would you like a ride home, John?” Mycroft asked. When John didn’t answer, he continued, “We don’t know if any of us will be targeted as well.”

“Okay, then.”

Mycroft dialed a number into his phone. He spoke quickly and softly to the person on the other end. Not long after, a young man opened the door. “Edmund will take you home,” Mycroft said, nodding at the young man.

“Thank you,” John said to Mycroft, then turned to Edmund.

“Come with me, Doctor Watson,” Edmund said, gesturing for John to exit first. He nodded to Mycroft as he left. The door closed behind them.

Lestrade seemed to collapse in on himself after John had left.

“Are you alright, Detective Inspector?”

“Yeah, I’m just…” Lestrade waved a hand half-heartedly, unable to find the right words, then pressed his hands against his eyes, his back arching in a long stretch. The position screamed _just make it all go away_. He straightened and let his arms drop to his sides. “I need a fag,” he said.

“May I join you?”

“Only if your people aren’t too close.”

Mycroft chuckled at that. “You’ll hardly notice them.”

They walked out in silence, Mycroft following Lestrade to an area where he could smoke away from the hospital entrances, and where they could talk with some privacy.

Lestrade pulled a pack of cigarettes out of his pocket, “Do you smoke?” he asked, offering the pack to Mycroft.  
  
“I don’t, but I will,” he responded, taking a cigarette.

Lestrade pulled out a cigarette for himself and lit Mycroft’s, then his own. He watched as Mycroft took a long drag. He held his breath for a moment, his eyes closed, then let the breath out in a deep sigh. Those blue-grey eyes opened and seemed to stare at something far away.

The lost expression had reappeared and Lestrade found that he couldn’t look away. Mycroft’s gaze stayed on that distant object, and Lestrade was struck with the thought that Mycroft appeared to be looking at the past; Lestrade couldn’t think of anything else that would make him look like that, other than Mycroft’s own memories. Sherlock was probably the only person to whom Mycroft felt he could relate. Who was going to fill that void?

 “I’m sorry, Mycroft,” was all Lestrade could think to say.

Mycroft finally blinked. He looked over at Lestrade, but he didn’t really seem to see the detective. “There is nothing for which you need to apologize.”

“My condolences, then.” Lestrade said, raising his cigarette to his lips. “I know I’m beating myself up for not being there to save Sherlock. I can only imagine how you feel.” He inhaled, thinking. “Before John showed up, we were the only ones who really took care of him.”

Mycroft took another drag. “Sherlock’s always needed protecting.”

“It must’ve been awful when he was a kid.”

Mycroft smiled, “Yes. He loved to make trouble. I was constantly cleaning up his messes.”

“That must’ve been difficult.”

“How do you mean?”

Hazel eyes met blue-grey ones. “You had to be responsible for him, even though you were only a kid yourself.”

“True, but it taught me that I’m good at taking care of things.” Mycroft looked down, tapping his cigarette with his thumb to knock the ash from its end. “One could say Sherlock brought me to my profession.”

“I’m happy you’re doing it. We’d be in trouble if you’d gone the same way as Moriarty.”

“I doubt I would have succeeded to the extent he did.”

Lestrade shrugged in disagreement.

They finished their cigarettes in silence, when Mycroft looked at his watch.

“Do you have somewhere you need to be?” Lestrade asked.

“I have a meeting this evening.”

“Your brother’s dying, can’t you take the night off?”

“Unfortunately, that isn’t possible. Due to other… complications, this has been delayed repeatedly.”

“That’s awful,” Lestrade said, incredulous. “Don’t you get time to mourn or… to deal with what’s happened?”

“Work has always been my preferred method of escapism.”

That made sense. “You had your driver take John home, won’t that mess with your schedule?”

“I always work extra time into my schedule, in case an emergency occurs.”

“Do you want a ride? I’m not going back to work tonight.” Lestrade tried to avoid thinking about the fact that he actually _wanted_ to spend more time with the older Holmes.

Mycroft considered the offer for a moment. “I would appreciate that. I’ll let my people know.”

\--

John’s return home was greeted by a long hug from Mary. “How are you?” she asked.

Instead of answering, he buried his face in Mary’s neck.

Mary had him sit down while she made tea. She attempted to talk to John while he drank his tea, but John stayed silent. The hot drink _did_ help relax him. Apparently, John hadn’t realized how tired he was, because he was asleep within minutes of finishing the beverage.

When he woke up, he was leaning over, his head resting on Mary’s shoulder. He stretched, then relaxed against the couch again. “How long was I out?”

“About two hours.”

“I’m sorry… I didn’t mean to sleep.” John was still exhausted. “Have you been here this whole time?”

Mary nodded. “You need someone to take care of you right now.”

John leaned against Mary again. “Thank you,” he said, his eyes fluttering closed again.

\--

John and Mary visited Mrs. Hudson after John woke up.

It was so quiet in 221B without Sherlock there, which John found odd. He had been there many times without Sherlock, and the flat had never seemed quiet before.

“Would you two be interested in moving here?” Mrs. Hudson asked. “I don’t think I have the heart to rent the place out to anyone else. It would feel like I was forgetting about Sherlock.”

“I don’t know,” Mary responded.

“I’ll give you the same rate I gave you two when you first moved in,” Mrs. Hudson said to John. She looked around the room. Her eyes stopped on the face Sherlock had spray-painted on the wall. “It really won’t be the same without him here.”

At about eight o’clock, John’s phone rang. It was Mycroft.

“Tests on Sherlock’s brain activity will begin tomorrow. Would you like to be present?”

John thought for a moment. “No. I have work tomorrow and I know you won’t let anyone who is underqualified do the tests.”

“I will notify you when the examinations are completed.”

“Thanks.”

John agreed to tell Mrs. Hudson and Mary, and ended the call.

After that, he and Mary returned home.

\--

John spoke very little for the next several days. Mary would try to strike up conversation, but responses that were not monosyllabic were difficult. He was no different at work. John’s patients were used to a doctor who wasn’t particularly chatty, but his silence was clearly discomforting to some patients.

He visited Sherlock for a while every day. It was terrible to see Sherlock’s body the way it was, but John needed to see him.

Four days after Sherlock had suffered the morphine overdose, John was with Mrs. Hudson when they received the news from Mycroft. He came to the flat personally instead of giving them the news over the phone: Sherlock had officially been declared brain dead.

John had known that would be the case, but it still felt like he’d been punched in the stomach.

“When will he be removed from life support?” he asked.

“Saturday afternoon.”

That gave them two days to say goodbye.

“Would you like some tea?” John wondered how Mrs. Hudson was taking everything so well.

“I’m fine, thank you.”

“You’re a terrible liar, Mycroft Holmes.”

“Nevertheless, I must leave.” He took a deep breath. “I still have to inform my parents and Detective Inspector Lestrade. I also need to return to work.”

John had met their parents for a few moments. He shuddered inwardly, but the first comment that came to mind was wildly inappropriate.

Mrs. Hudson tutted at him. “You deserve a break, young man.”

“Tomorrow.” Mycroft started to walk to the door, “I hope to see you both on Saturday.”

\--

When Lestrade got to Sherlock’s room, Mycroft was already there. He was sitting next to Sherlock’s bed, a laptop balanced on his thighs, typing. “Hey.”

“Hello, Detective Inspector,” Mycroft responded, looking up at Lestrade. “Forgive me if I don’t get up.” His eyes were bloodshot, ginger stubble had grown on his face.

“You look like hell.”

Mycroft looked up at him. “As do you.”

“Yeah, I know,” Lestrade replied, running a hand through his hair. He looked around the room. A suitcase containing a small collection of clothing and a stack of papers was on the floor at Mycroft’s feet. “Did you stay here overnight?”

Mycroft’s fingers continued to type. “Yes.”

“Have you slept?”

“I’m afraid not. My parents came to say goodbye last night. I felt it was only right to come along, but I had no choice but to bring my work with me.” His fingers lifted away from the computer and he looked up at his brother’s still body. “Sherlock always seemed to believe I could stop the country for him. I would like to now.”

Lestrade stared at the other man. Before Sherlock had been shot, he had never seen Mycroft as anything other than The British Government: brilliant, but not quite human. It was strange to realize just how wrong he had been. He walked over to Mycroft and gently closed the laptop. “I think the world can continue spinning without the aid of Mycroft Holmes for a little while.”

Mycroft looked up at him. “I was writing to the Prime Minister, Detective Inspector,” he said, but the words were betrayed by the gratitude on his face. Before Lestrade could apologize, Mycroft lifted the laptop and placed it in his suitcase. He sat back in his chair and his eyes slid back to Sherlock.

They remained silent for several minutes, until there was a knock at the door. John and Mrs. Hudson walked in.

“Hello,” Mrs. Hudson said, her voice shaking a little. “How long do we have?”

“As long as we need,” Mycroft responded, standing. “Perhaps each of us could have a moment with him privately.”

“Yes, I would like that.” John replied.

“Mrs. Hudson,” Mycroft said, “Why don’t you go first?”

Mrs. Hudson nodded.

As the men left the room, she held one of his hands gently. “Oh, Sherlock…” she sighed, sniffling a little.

Mrs. Hudson rested a hand on Sherlock’s wild curls. “I’m happy I got to watch you grow up, especially since the time you met John. You’ve changed so much since then. Your brother and I have always tried to mold you into a better person, but along came John, and he did it without a thought!

“I’ve invited him and Mary to come and live at the flat. I can’t imagine anyone else living there now. John said he wants to take me up on the offer, too. They’ll probably take your room, since the single is hardly large enough for two.”

She looked up towards the door. “You should have told John,” Mrs. Hudson said, her eyes returning to the man on the bed. “He’ll never know now. Mycroft knows—Detective Lestrade probably knows too— but they’ll never tell John.”

She smiled a little, “Of course, maybe you didn’t know it either. You were always so perceptive about everyone but yourself.”

She took a deep breath, “I’ll miss you, Sherlock. We all will.” Mrs. Hudson stood there for a moment, her hand running through the unruly curls, then walked to the door.

Three pairs of eyes looked up as she entered the hallway. John came over and wrapped his arms around her. She covered her face with her hands and cried quietly into his chest.

Mycroft looked at Lestrade, who nodded and entered the room silently, the door closing behind him.

He stared at Sherlock, thinking of what to say. “You always gave me grief for thinking. It’s not easy around you, you know. Always had to be the cleverest in the room. You were, usually.

“You’re a real bastard, you know that? You pretend to kill yourself then you come back and get yourself killed for real. How’re we supposed to deal with this? How’s John supposed to deal with this?”

He looked away for a moment, breathing heavily. “You’re the only reason any of us met and you held us together in your own mad way. We’ll fall apart without you. Especially Mycroft! You’re all he has in the world!”

Lestrade clapped a hand over his mouth, realizing he’d been getting loud.

“If you come back to life, I’ll kill you for doing this to us. For doing this to your brother and John and Mrs. Hudson.” He ran his fingers through his hair. Lestrade started to stalk out of the room, but he stopped and turned around.

“…But I’d do anything for you to come back again. We all would.”

Mycroft looked concerned when his and Lestrade’s eyes met. Greg wondered if they’d heard him shouting, no one commented on it if they had. “Would you like to go next, John?” Mycroft asked.

John nodded, walked into the room, and closed the door as quietly as he could, despite knowing that there was no level of sound that could wake Sherlock.

“Well,” he said, “here we are again. Me saying goodbye to you.”

A mirthless laugh tore from his throat. “You know, last time, I asked you for a miracle. I asked for a miracle so you’d stop being dead.”

John’s eyes burned with tears. “You heard me then. You weren’t dead and you heard me ask for that miracle and you gave it to me.” The tears came and burned their way down John’s face. “Why did you give _that_ miracle to me?”

He lifted his hand and pulled the back of his sleeve across his eyes, drying the tears. “I don’t want to be angry with you for coming back to me, but miracles only happen once, Sherlock. I can’t have you back again.”

John stepped up to the bed and laid a shaking hand on Sherlock’s still one. His fingers closed slowly around the cool skin. John held his friend’s hand for the second and last time. “Ella asked me, after you faked your death, if I had left things unsaid. I had.” More tears fell, but John didn’t stop them this time. He felt his voice breaking as he spoke, “But I won’t say them now. I’m sorry.”

“I’ll miss you, Sherlock. I… I don’t know what I would have done if I’d never met you.” He took a deep breath and let it out. “I don’t think I’d still be alive.”

John turned to look at the door, then looked down at the hand in his. He turned Sherlock’s palm up and pressed the nail of his thumb into Sherlock’s hand. No reaction. He placed Sherlock’s hand back down on the bed, palm down. “Goodbye, Sherlock. Thank you… for the adventures.”

John wiped the tears from his eyes again and opened the door. He held the door open for Mycroft, who walked through in silence, and closed it behind him.

Mycroft held Sherlock’s hand gently, examining the similarities in their fingers. “Oh, brother mine…” He knew that Sherlock wasn’t aware of his surroundings, but speaking out loud was cathartic. “After all the insanity in which you involved yourself, one would expect your passing to be more exciting than this.” His thumb rubbed Sherlock’s skin.

“Do you remember when you were hospitalized? You were only eight, but you were already getting into trouble.” Mycroft smiled, “I was so worried.”

He touched the wild, black hair that adorned his brother’s head. Mycroft had noticed long ago how well their hair suited the two of them. Sherlock’s was black and curly and uncontrollable, even at the best of times. His was auburn and plain, every hair of his was always in place.

“I always believed I would die first, being the oldest. Then, I hoped I would die second. It wasn’t likely that you would outlive me, especially with your… habits, but I didn’t want to live through losing you, too.” He sighed. “You always thought I was the better of us. I finished my education, I had no addictions, I became employed by the government, and I eventually ran the country. I always followed the rules. But I never thought myself better than you.” Mycroft wrapped one of Sherlock’s curls around his index finger. “You were everything I wished to be. So many people loved you, even if you always spoke the truth, their emotions be damned. So many people hate me, even if I lie to protect them.”

“‘All lives end, all hearts are broken,’ I told you that once. I wanted to teach you to stay distant. I tried to force you to believe that caring isn’t an advantage. I wanted to protect you from everything I had felt.

“I wanted to make sure you were never hurt. I failed to stop you caring, I failed to protect you.”

Mycroft closed his eyes. “Losing you will break my heart, Sherlock.”

Mycroft stood and placed a kiss on his brother’s head. It was reminiscent of a time when Sherlock was a rowdy child who would only calm down after a story from his big brother. “Farewell, Sherlock. Perhaps we’ll meet again.”

When Mycroft opened the door, he seemed a decade older. “I’ve called for Doctor Worth,” he said, “She’ll be here in a moment.”

John, Lestrade, and Mrs. Hudson entered in silence and gathered around the bed. Sherlock was the force that had brought the four of them together. He had changed all of them for the better, and now they would have to continue to grow without him.

Sherlock’s doctor entered the room. “You’re all prepared?” she asked.

“Yes,” Mycroft replied.

Doctor Worth walked to the machines that had been keeping Sherlock alive. “I’ll remove the life support now.” She started to adjust the controls on the machine; Sherlock’s breathing slowed to a stop.

Mrs. Hudson started crying again, but John was too focused on Sherlock to notice. Instead, Lestrade wrapped an arm around her gently. She leaned into the embrace.

John reached down and pressed his fingers to the inside of Sherlock’s wrist. He could feel the heartbeats the machine generated. The heart rate monitor beeped with every beat. The time between beats became progressively longer until they ceased and the monitor released a high-pitched droning. John realized he was hoping the beats would start again, but he knew they wouldn’t.

The doctor turned off the machine’s sound. “It’ll take a few moments for any remaining brain activity to stop.”

Although he couldn’t see or feel anything through Sherlock’s wrist, John knew that Sherlock’s organs were beginning to fail. He tried to keep his eyes open as long as possible. Sherlock’s final moments would be burned into his memory forever, and he didn’t want to miss an instant.

Keeping his eyes opened seemed to be affecting his vision, because a white mist started to form over Sherlock’s body. John blinked, but the mist remained. As the mist became more visible, John realized it only covered his friend’s body. He looked around, but no one else seemed to notice it. The mist thickened and became brighter, until Sherlock’s skin shone with a white light. The light became so bright that John closed his eyes to the brilliant glare. When he opened his eyes, the light and the mist were gone.

The doctor came over and checked Sherlock’s eyes for dilation. John could hear her speaking, but all of his attention was on Sherlock.

He felt a hand on his shoulder. It was Lestrade. “Let’s go, John. We can come back after they’ve… verified everything.”

John looked back down at his friend, and pulled his hand away slowly.

Lestrade led him from the room, a firm grip on his upper arm, to the hallway, where the small party waited as the doctor and a few nurses cleaned up Sherlock’s body.

Mycroft was asked into the room before the others. He spent several minutes in the room before inviting John, Lestrade, and Mrs. Hudson to enter as well. The many tubes that had been keeping Sherlock alive had been removed and his body had been posed so that it looked like he was sleeping.

“Why did they call you in?” John asked Mycroft after the hospital staff had left.

“They found something odd on Sherlock’s body,” was the response.

“What is it?”

Mycroft pulled down the collar of Sherlock’s hospital gown. A mark was in the center of his chest, just above the gunshot wound. John leaned in so he could see it better.

The mark was about the size of his thumbnail, a circle with two crescent moon-like shapes on either side, the points of the crescent shapes meeting in the middle.

 “This mark was not present yesterday, and this room has been under surveillance. There is no time the mark could have been made.”

John reached out and touched the mark gently. The cool skin wasn’t raised, as if the mark was old. “He didn’t have a birthmark here?”

“Nothing like that.”

“I don’t see any bruising, either, which rules out the possibility of the mark being caused by someone wearing a ring or some other jewelry,” John said. It was easy to examine a body, John had learned to be detached when it came to medical procedures, even if the body belonged to a friend.

“There will be more examination during the autopsy,” Mycroft said.

“Maybe it’s nothing,” Lestrade said.

“Every possibility needs to be checked out,” John said.

Mrs. Hudson had been silent, and Mycroft noticed that she had a strange expression on her face. “Are you well, Mrs. Hudson?”

“I’m fine, Mycroft,” she replied. “But I think I’ve seen a mark like this before.”

“Where?”

“A funeral, when I was young. The man had a mark like this on his cheek. No one knew where it had come from.” She sniffled a little. “They never knew what killed him.”

“What was his name?”

“Kieran Barrett.”

“I’ll look into it, Mycroft.”

“Thank you, Detective Inspector,” Mycroft said.

“Well, you’ve got a lot on your plate right now. It’s the least I can do.”

“I appreciate it. I will be arranging my brother’s funeral, which will occupy a great deal of my mind.”

They fell silent after that, all eyes on the dead man.

“We should leave,” Lestrade eventually commented.

John nodded.

“I will inform you all of anything I learn regarding the autopsy. The funeral will probably be in a week, and I will call you with more details.”

With that, they all prepared to leave, each going a separate way.

John was happy to have a wife to return to at home: mourning when he lived alone was terrible. Mary held him all night, even after he fell asleep.

\--

Sherlock’s funeral service was a week later.

The service went smoothly, which was to be expected, since it was arranged by Mycroft Holmes. John recognized a good number of those attending, many of whom were Sherlock’s early clients. He had been asked to give the eulogy, and couldn’t bring himself to refuse.

The funeral was uneventful until Sherlock’s casket was being lowered into his grave. It was warm and sunny that day, but there was a sudden gust of wind.

The wind was loud and powerful, but John was more concerned with the voice he heard.

“John? _John!?”_ It was deep and warm and all too familiar.

“Sherlock?” John whispered.

The wind died down, and John could no longer hear his friend’s voice.

John stared at the grave. It wasn’t possible…

Out of the corner of his eye, John saw a tall figure facing the grave. He looked over. A man was there, a long, dark coat moving in the light breeze that remained. He was bent double, as if in pain, but John could see curly, black hair was visible over his turned-up collar. The man’s body straightened and started to turn towards John and John felt his feet begin to move towards him.

“Where are you going, John?”

He turned around. Mary had a worried expression on her face. John turned back to the man, to tell Mary that Sherlock was alive somehow, but the man was gone.

John’s gaze had only been off him for a second. There wasn’t anything he could have hidden behind, and he couldn’t have moved fast enough to be out of sight.

John’s mouth opened, but no words passed his lips.

Mary turned him so he was facing her again. “John?”

He shook his head. “I… I thought I saw something, but…” he looked back at the grave. John didn’t want Mary to think something was wrong with him.

The service concluded and John was left to try to figure out what was going on by himself.

\--

John and Mary decided to take up Mrs. Hudson’s offer for the flat.

Mary had been reluctant at first, but she eventually realized how much it would help John to be there again. 221B also had two bedrooms, which would come in handy as the baby grew.

John felt like he’d been away from his home for ages. Returning was a welcome relief.

The flat was still full of Sherlock’s belongings, but John couldn’t bring himself to get rid of any of it, so the science equipment was put in boxes and stacked in John’s old room.

Because John wouldn’t let Mary lift anything remotely heavy, Lestrade was kind enough to help them move in. Besides which, he and John hadn’t spent much time together since the funeral. Lestrade used the opportunity to fill John in on the fact that there had so far been no progress in the investigation.

The first night they stayed in 221B, John slept more peacefully than he had in a long time.

\--

It wasn’t long after the couple moved into 221B that strange things started to happen around the flat.

She hadn’t been very involved in the moving process, but Mary _had_ done a small amount of redecorating. Most of the flat was the same as it had been when Sherlock lived there, but they had decided to use his bedroom, which was the larger of the two in 221B. Mary had brought her dresser from their old flat. She decorated it with a few trinkets, one of which was a three-inch porcelain cat figurine.

In the middle of the night, John and Mary were startled awake when the figurine crashed to the floor.

John leapt out of bed and checked the flat for an intruder, but they were the only ones there.

It hadn’t been anywhere near the end of the dresser, so neither of them could think of a way it could have fallen like that. In the end, they decided it was just a strange accident and thought nothing of it. They cleaned up the broken trinket and went to sleep.

\--

John carried on. He was becoming distant with Mary. She would try to strike up conversations, but John couldn’t focus on them. John’s appetite became almost non-existent. When she received an invitation to a medical conference in New York, his only response was that he was fine with her going.

Thankfully, Mary seemed to understand. He was healing through escapism, and work was his escape route. His life continued on, even if Sherlock wasn’t a part of it anymore. He lost interest in everything else.

Unfortunately, most of his patients knew about Sherlock (some of them had actually found his practice after reading his blog), so John could never fully clear his mind of his friend when working. Elderly patients were especially bad—they would ask him about his feelings repeatedly. All John could do was tell them something vague and polite; many of those people were beginning to have poor memories, and they simply didn’t remember that they’d asked him the same question five minutes before.

Soon, even work wasn’t enough. John spent days thinking about what he could do to occupy himself. The answer came while he was reading over some of his old blog posts.

Mrs. Hudson was obviously relieved when he asked if they could have a conversation. She and Mary chatted often, so she knew that John had become despondent.

They had their conversation over tea.

“So, John, what did you want to talk about?”

John took a sip before answering. “I need something more to occupy myself.”

“Working isn’t enough?”

“Not anymore.”

“And Mary can’t help?”

John clasped his hands tightly. “No.” It hurt to admit that. Mary wanted to help, and she just couldn’t.

Mrs. Hudson looked perplexed. “But there’s something I can do?”

He nodded. “I’ve been thinking about this for a while and, well, I know that you haven’t been able to rent out the basement flat yet because of the damp. I want to renovate it for you.” Mrs. Hudson seemed about to protest, but John spoke first. “I’ll pay for it all. You don’t have to worry about anything.”

She didn’t seem convinced. “John, I would love for you do that, but I don’t think it’s a good idea. You aren’t coping with what’s happened.”

“That’s why I wanted to do this.”

Mrs. Hudson moved to sit next to John. She laid a hand on his. “I don’t think this will help.”

John tried to keep his face neutral, but he obviously failed. “What would you suggest, then?”

“Have you been seeing your therapist?”

“No.”

Mrs. Hudson sat back. “I’ll let you renovate the other flat, but there are conditions.”

John knew what was coming.

“Start seeing your therapist again… and talk to Mary more.”

Neither statement surprised John. He knew he hadn’t been attentive enough towards Mary. “Okay.”

“And you’re not paying for the renovation. You need to be spending that money on getting ready for your baby.”

John smiled, but he didn’t feel happy.

\--

John made good on his promises that night. He made an appointment with Ella and took Mary out for dinner, after which they walked home, hand in hand.

When they got home, John pulled Mary to his chest. “I’m so sorry that I’ve been so distant lately,” he whispered. “Thank you so much for being here for me.” He kissed her, his hands moving to cradle her face.

They moved slowly into their bedroom and sat on the bed, hands roaming over each other’s body. Mary reached up and unbuttoned John’s shirt, laying kisses on the exposed skin.

\--

Mary was asleep, her body pressed against John’s. He stared at the dark ceiling. Physically, the sex had been good, but he hadn’t actually _felt_ anything.

John didn’t realize when he fell asleep, but he was woken up by the sound of footsteps coming up the stairs into the flat. His eyes flew open, but he didn’t move.

John had always been able to identify the sound of his housemates’ footsteps. Harry dragged her feet and tended to stomp around. Mrs. Hudson’s footsteps were a little uneven, because of her bad hip. Mary walked almost silently, but he could usually hear when her heels hit the floor.

The footsteps he heard were familiar. He’d spent years listening to those footsteps, following them wherever they went. They were a little slower than others, somehow thoughtful, calculated. John felt a tremor run through his left hand. He knew those footsteps.

They were Sherlock’s.

They walked through the flat, becoming more distant as they entered the living room, only to turn and come back towards the bedroom through the kitchen. John listened as the sound came closer. His heart was racing, pounding as if it wanted to burst out of his chest. John covered his mouth to stifle the sound of his breathing.

The floor creaked just outside the bedroom. The doorknob to the bedroom rattled—someone had grabbed it.

John sat up as the knob started to turn.

The sudden movement woke Mary up. “What’s wrong?” she said, her voice thick.

The door didn’t open. John reached over to turn on a lamp, but kept his eyes on the doorknob.

The light filled the room. John rushed out of bed and pulled the door open, there was no one there.

He heard Mary asking him what he was doing as he ran through the flat, turning lights on and searching for Sherlock. It _had not_ been a dream, he knew it hadn’t, but there was no sign of Sherlock or anyone else in the flat.

They couldn’t have left without him hearing.

He stood at the stairs, contemplating what he should do.

Mary walked up behind him slowly. “John?”

He didn’t turn to face her.

“What’s going on?”

 “I… I thought I heard something.” He couldn’t tell her the rest, Mary would think he was losing his mind and he couldn’t take losing her after having lost Sherlock.

Mary led him back to bed, but John didn’t sleep for the rest of the night. He tried to calm himself down, but his mind was racing.

He got up at four, knowing that sleep was a lost cause. Mary would probably sleep for several more hours, but John felt it was best not to disturb her.

He made himself coffee and toast for breakfast and ate without tasting any of it. He sat in his chair, his chin propped on one of his hands. There was nowhere he could go for help. If he told Ella or looked up his symptoms, Mycroft would find out and would probably have him sectioned.

John stood up to get another cup of coffee.

_“You’re not crazy.”_

John dropped his mug. It fell for a second, then stopped and seemed to be placed on the floor gently.

That was Sherlock’s voice. It sounded like he was far away, but John could’ve sworn it had come from just next to him, as if Sherlock was standing there, alive.

He looked around, no one was there. His eyes travelled to the mug on the floor. He had dropped it, it should have broken, but it was in a single piece and upright on the rug.

A pen was on the table next to his chair. John picked it up and dropped it. Not knowing what he expected would happen, John watched it clatter as it hit the floor.

He stared at the pen and the mug on the carpet and heard the bedroom door open. John picked the items up as quickly as possible and attempted to look normal when Mary came in.

“You’re up early,” she said, tying the sash on her dressing gown.

“Couldn’t sleep,” John responded.

Worry flashed across Mary’s face. “Are you okay? Really?”

John nodded. “Just a bit restless. That’s all.”

John felt Mary wrap her arms around him from behind and nuzzling his shoulders. He looked out the windows at Baker Street. There weren’t many people out so early in the morning.

A black Jaguar came to a stop outside the flat, but no one exited the car. John knew what that meant. “I’m going to go out for a bit,” he said, pulling away from Mary. He saw the car moving as he walked away from the window.

“Now?”

“I just want to stretch my legs a bit.” Holding her in his arms, John kissed Mary.

Getting ready to leave only took a few minutes. John left the flat, grabbing a warm coat on his way out.

The Jaguar was nowhere to be found, so John walked in the direction it had continued in. It had stopped around the corner, out of sight of the flat.

A woman stepped out of the car, and John recognized her as the woman he had met on the same day as Sherlock.

“Good morning, Anthea,” John said as he approached.

She looked around for a moment, “Who are you talking to?”

“Anthea. Last time we met, you called yourself Anthea.”

She looked puzzled. “We’ve met before?”

John rolled his eyes. “I assume Mycroft wants to see me.”

“Yes,” she smiled and gestured to the open door of the car. John got in as she walked around the car and entered the other side. He didn’t see the look of satisfaction on her face.

The drive was quite short but John was too lost in thought to pay attention to the route the driver took. He wondered if Mycroft had somehow found out that he was hallucinating.

The car pulled into an underground area where it parked. John got out of the car and followed Anthea through a few doors, into a large sitting room. John was reminded of the sitting room in Buckingham palace.

A man was sitting on one of the couches.

“Greg?”

Lestrade looked around, “John!”

“What’s going on?”

“Mycroft said they’d found something. Didn’t he tell you?”

“I was picked up by his people.” He looked around, wondering where they were. “Why are you here so early?”

Greg cleared his throat. “I usually get up pretty early. Mycroft had… texted me.”

John’s deductive skills were practically non-existent when compared to Sherlock’s, but even he could tell that Greg was lying.

They heard footsteps approaching and Mycroft turned a corner at the far end of the room. “Good morning, John, Detective Inspector.”

“Mycroft.”

“You found something?” John said, sitting. The other men followed suit.

“Yes,” Mycroft opened a file that he’d been holding. “Fingerprints were found on the machine that malfunctioned.”

“Whose?”

A photograph was placed in front of John. His eyes widened as he realized who it was. “Janine Hawkins. Former personal assistant to Charles Augustus Magnussen. She was, of course, the bridesmaid at your wedding, John.” He pulled out more printouts, several of which were headlines. “Sherlock dated her in order to gain access to Magnussen’s office.”

“She’s the one that sold that ridiculous story about Sherlock’s sex life?” Lestrade said.

“Yes.”

 “Do you really think she did it? Does she even know how to do something like tamper with machines?”

“We’re not yet sure,” was the reply. “I wanted to speak with you on the matter before any conversations with her occurred.”

“You were going to _interrogate her?_ ” John asked.

Mycroft looked vaguely offended. “I had no intentions of _torturing_ her. I simply wanted to know what had transpired when she visited him.”

John relaxed at that, picking up the photographs Mycroft had put down.

“You don’t think she could’ve done it, do you John?” Lestrade said.

“No, I don’t. Janine’s vindictive, but she’s not a murderer.”

“No sending her to Guantanamo Bay, then,” Lestrade said, looking up at Mycroft, a wide grin on his face.

Mycroft’s only response was a slight raising of the corners of his mouth.

_“Are you two sleeping together?”_

Sherlock’s voice was so loud and so clear that John dropped the papers he’d been holding. He turned his head to the direction of the voice, then cast his eyes around the room.

Mycroft and Lestrade stared at John—they hadn’t heard the voice.

“You okay, John?”

John could feel his hand shaking. It wasn’t some sort of cruel joke—Mycroft and Lestrade would never do something like this—which meant that John was simply losing his mind. “I’m fine.” He picked up the papers he had dropped. “I didn’t get a lot of sleep last night, so I’m running on coffee,” he said, keeping his eyes to the ground. “Makes me jumpy sometimes.” He neatened the papers and returned them to the table.

Lestrade reached forward to start looking through the papers himself. John took the opportunity to rest his hand on his left leg in an attempt to stop the shaking. He tried to keep his eyes straight ahead and his expression neutral, even when he felt what he thought was someone else’s hand touching his. It was a relaxing gesture, but John pulled his hand away roughly, then pretended to comb through his hair with his fingers.

Neither Mycroft nor Lestrade commented further on John’s strange actions, but the concerned look they shared spoke volumes.

Lestrade’s eyes left Mycroft’s and he rifled through the papers. He came to a photograph of the mark on Sherlock’s chest. “Any luck on this?” he said, showing the picture to Mycroft.

“Not really.” He had another file, which he opened. This one looked considerably older than the first file. “Kieran Barrett, the man Mrs. Hudson mentioned, born 6 January 1935. He was a perfectly healthy young man, died after being in a car accident, 17 October 1963.”

“So, no connection to Sherlock’s case?”

“None, except that their deaths occurred under suspicious circumstances.”

“How was Barrett’s death suspicious?”

“He was driving his Chevrolet Corvair home from work and rear-ended another vehicle. Both vehicles were travelling at low speeds, but Barrett’s head struck the steering wheel so hard that police initially believed he had been moving at speeds close to eighty miles per hour.”

“How did they know he wasn’t?” Lestrade asked.

“It was a busy street with many witnesses. No one saw anything out of the ordinary.”

“Could he have received the wound before the accident?”

“He had left work five minutes earlier. His coworkers all agreed that he had sustained no injuries prior to getting into his car.”

John picked up a picture of the mark on the dead man’s face. Like Sherlock’s, it looked like a tattoo or a birthmark. Unlike Sherlock’s, this one looked like two diamonds overlapping in the middle.

“His widow is still alive and living in Devonshire with their daughter.”

“Have you spoken with her?”

“Yes. She knew of only one person who would have had interest in doing her husband harm.” Mycroft looked through the file and pulled out two photographs. “James Connor. The two men worked together. Barrett caught Connor embezzling from the company. The subsequent investigation found that Connor had become involved with a prostitution ring. He lost his job and his good reputation when he was found guilty of fraud and running an illegal brothel.

“Connor was sentenced to ten years in prison. From his release until his death, he spent most of his time living on the streets. James Connor died in 2012 of a heart attack.”

“Convenient,” Lestrade said. “Any children?”

“One, Samuel Green. He still lives in London.”

“Spoken with him yet?”

“No, he’s been abroad and unreachable for the last three weeks. He comes in on Thursday.”

“What about the mark itself?” John said.

“Thus far, we’ve been unable to connect it with any specific belief system or group.”

“Maybe it’s a signature,” Lestrade responded.

“That is a possibility. It _would_ explain why we’ve found no information.”

“Is there anything else?” John asked.

“I have told you everything important,” Mycroft started to collect the papers scattered around the table. “I apologize for having delayed this conversation. My occupation has been… difficult as of late.”

“I’m grateful you tell us anything,” John said.

They all stood. Mycroft tucked the files under an arm. “Is there anything else I should know?” he said.

The question was obviously aimed at John. “No.”

Mycroft exhaled in a way that seemed like he was resisting the urge to sigh.

Lestrade looked over at John, “Need a ride home, mate?”

“Yeah, sure.”

“We’ll be seeing you, Mycroft,” Lestrade said, starting to leave.

John followed the detective, nodding to Mycroft on his way out. Lestrade seemed to know his way through the building, which was a blessing.

As they got into the car, John felt Lestrade’s eyes on him.

“Baker Street?”

“Yeah.”

Lestrade started up the car and started to drive. When they were a reasonable distance from the building, he looked at John for a second. “What’s going on?”

John stared at his hands, “It’s not easy to explain.”

“Try.”

John just shook his head. “No.”

“Why don’t you trust me? I can kind of understand why you wouldn’t trust Mycroft, but I’ve never lied to you. I’ve never tricked you.”

John had considered mentioning Lestrade’s obvious lie earlier that day, but Sherlock’s voice beat him. _“You lied to him this morning.”_ John did his best to keep calm and decided against commenting on it.

 “I trust you, Greg. I do.”

“Then tell me.”

“I will, just… not now.”

Lestrade glanced over, but decided not to push John any further.

When they stopped outside the flat, Greg looked at him. “Why don’t we go out for drinks one of these days? You know, get your mind off everything?”

“Sure.”

“I’ll see you then.”

Mary was seething when John got back. “Where did you go? You were three hours!”

He hadn’t been keeping an eye on the time. He almost forgot that she wasn’t allowed to know the truth about Sherlock’s death. “I ran into Greg. We were talking about the investigation into whatever caused Sherlock’s overdose.”

“I thought it was a malfunction.”

“They want to verify that it was and not someone at the hospital being careless or malicious.”

 “Have they found anything?”

John shook his head. “So far, it just seems like an accident.”

Mary calmed when she heard that. “That… that’s good, isn’t it?” She walked up to John and hugged him. One of her hands moved to the back of his neck. She massaged it gently, her fingers moving in tight circles. “You’re very tense, John.”

John hummed in agreement.

“Why don’t you go back to sleep?”

John realized how tired he was. “Yeah, I think I’ll sleep some more.”

Mary walked him to their bed. He was practically asleep before they even got to the room, so he was grateful for the help. John laid down and Mary removed his shoes. He was unconscious in seconds.

\--

John walked down a hallway. The walls were made of wood, pillars punctuated them every few feet. The floor and ceiling were so white that they almost seemed to glow. He looked around. There were French doors on either side of the hallway. John looked through the windows in the doors and saw hallways identical to the one he was in.

A clicking sound behind him made John turn. An Irish setter was walking through the hallway, too. John liked dogs well enough, so he knelt down and held his hand out for the dog to smell. The dog sniffed his fingers warily. After a moment, it moved close enough that John could pet it.

Soft fur ran between John’s fingers as he scratched the dog behind its ears. A collar was around the dog’s neck with a tag dangling. John lifted the tag with his free hand.

“Redbeard? Someone liked pirates, didn’t they?”

The dog looked up at him and whined a little. John lifted his hands from its head and the dog started to walk away.

“Where are you going?”

Redbeard didn’t seem to hear, so John followed it. It walked up to one of the doors on John’s right and scratched at it, whining. John opened the door and Redbeard walked through.

They continued through three more doors. After the last one, Redbeard ran through the hallway, barking. John couldn’t keep up.

Redbeard stopped at a door far ahead, and started barking and scratching the door. “Alright, hold on!” John said. He didn’t know how the dog was so much faster than he was.

Before John was anywhere near the dog, the door opened. Redbeard bounded in.

John finally reached the door and turned to look in hesitantly. This door lead to a room, instead of another hallway. It looked like an office.

Redbeard was on top of someone, licking their face. They seemed to be trying to get the dog off of them, but they weren’t succeeding.

“Is this your dog?” John asked.

“John?” Two hands came up and pushed the dog firmly off. Sherlock sat up, his hair even messier than usual. He pushed Redbeard away when the dog tried to attack him with more kisses. “Down, boy!” He looked up at John. “What are you doing here?”

John shrugged. “It’s a dream, I don’t have any control over where it takes place.”

Sherlock’s eyebrows snapped together. “This isn’t a dream.”

“If you say so.” John knelt down again and moved to pet Redbeard, but the dog growled at him. “What’s wrong?”

Redbeard just growled, his belly close to the ground. He moved behind John, still growling.

Sherlock followed the dog and looked at John’s back. Redbeard stopped growling. John suddenly felt cold fingers on the nape of his neck. “So that’s how it works, is it?”

“How what is?”

Sherlock pulled his fingers away. “Nothing.”

John stood up and turned to his friend. “So, if this isn’t a dream, what is it?”

“It’s my mind palace.”

John quirked an eyebrow. “Your mind palace?” He turned to the hallway and started to walk through the door, wanting to look around more.

“Don’t go out there!” Sherlock said, pulling John back by his arm.

“Why not?”

“Watch.” Sherlock unbuckled the collar from around Redbeard’s neck. He tossed it through the doorway, but the collar disappeared once it passed the frame. Redbeard ran through the door after it and disappeared as well.

“What happened?”

“I’m in the process of renovating. This is a new wing, so it still has some strange qualities.”

“Why do you need a new wing?”

“You know why.”

 “No I don’t. Besides, you’re dead, you’re not doing anything.” In this dream world, it didn’t hurt for John to talk about Sherlock’s death so lightly.

“You… really don’t know why I’m building a new wing?” John shook his head. “Do you not remember?”

“Remember what?”

Sherlock looked at him for a moment, his eyes boring into John. “Never mind.” He walked past John and started to examine the contents of the room. “Just because I’m dead doesn’t mean I’m not gaining new information.” Sherlock replied.

That didn’t make any sense to John, but Sherlock doing things that confounded him was nothing new. “What about your dog?”

“He seems to be able to get around fine by himself, but he’s a part of my mind palace, so that might be the reason.” Sherlock looked at John. “I’m more interested in why _you_ are here.”

“It’s my dream, I can go where I want.”

Sherlock looked irritated at that, but any response he may have been considering was cut off when Redbeard ran into the room, his collar hanging from his mouth. He replaced the collar, kneeling, and scratched the dog’s neck underneath it. Redbeard’s tail thumped on the floor.

The thumping grew louder and louder until the room began to shake. Redbeard stood next to John, leaning against his leg, and started barking at the doorway.

“What’s going on?” John asked.

“Something’s coming.” Sherlock jumped to his feet and ran behind the desk at the back of the room. He searched around in the drawers. He straightened again, a gun in his hand.

John recognized it as his own gun.

Sherlock walked towards the doorway, stopping a few feet from it, next to John. He aimed the gun outside the room. He looked at John. “I need to tell you something, John.”

“What?” The thumping had become so loud that John could hardly hear the word as it came from his own mouth.

The noise stopped suddenly. John looked at the door and saw fingers wrapped around the frame.

“It’s here.” Sherlock said. He looked at the dog. “Redbeard!” The dog looked up at him. “Sic ‘em, boy!”

Redbeard was a blur of rust-colored fur as he shot towards the door. His teeth caught on the hand and he was pulled around the door.

“Sherlock?” John didn’t know what was going on, but it couldn’t be good.

“Redbeard can hold it off for a bit.” He scratched the back of his head with the gun, muttering to himself. “We’ve no choice,” he said, and levelled the gun at John.

John backed away from him.

“I’m sorry, John, but there’s no other way.” He cocked the gun and moved closer to John. Soon, John was against the wall and Sherlock was pressing the gun to the base of this throat. “John, listen to me.” The thumping started up again. “You aren’t going crazy, do you understand me?”

John nodded.

“I know what’s happening in your waking hours and I know that you’re scared, but I can’t help you yet.” John saw a bloody hand reach around the door. Rust-colored fur stuck to the blood. “Wait for me, John!” The gun fired and pain blossomed in John’s throat. He could feel the bullet as it travelled through his windpipe and out through the nape of his neck. John’s legs collapsed beneath him.

Sherlock turned and started shooting out the door.

John watched in horror as hands reached through and grabbed at Sherlock’s body and clothing, pulling him out of the room. He fought back, but failed to save himself.

As his friend disappeared through the doorway, John’s vision blurred and the room vanished around him.

\--

John woke up, his body drenched in sweat. _“Wait for me, John!”_ It sounded like the words were being shouted next to his ears.  

He lurched out of bed, feeling like he had a hangover. Walking to the bathroom was difficult. He splashed water on his face, trying to cool his burning skin.

As the water dripped from his face to the sink, he thought about the dream he’d had. It had felt so _real._ Whatever was causing his hallucinations was clearly getting into his dreams as well. Brilliant.

John froze as the bedroom door opened. There were a few knocks at the door. “John?”

John’s shoulders slumped when he heard Mary’s voice. He didn’t have anything to be afraid of.

He opened the door slowly. “Hey.”

Mary touched his forehead. “Are you okay? You look awful.”

“Didn’t sleep very well,” John said.

“Come on, let’s get you some food.” Mary brought him into the living room, where John sat on his chair, his head falling slowly onto the back of it. He was presented with a bowl of soup, which he accepted gratefully. As he was eating, Mary sat across from him, in Sherlock’s chair, a bag on her lap.

“I was thinking about something, John.” She pulled some bottles of paint from the bag. “I was wondering if I could cover the face on the wall over there.” She tipped her head and John looked over to the yellow smiley face Sherlock had spray painted on the walls. Several bullet holes surrounded the face.

The destruction of that wall was John’s first experience with Sherlock’s boredom, but he had never forgotten it. The smiley face functioned as something like a memorial to Sherlock.

“I don’t know, Mary.”

Mary leaned forwards and started to draw little patterns on John’s leg. “Please?”

“I suppose it can’t hurt,” he said.

Mary smiled at that, “It’s going to look great, I promise.”

\--

John and Lestrade went out the next evening.

The pub they went to was crowded, but John managed to find an empty table in a back corner.

He studied his surroundings while Greg bought the first round of drinks. The pub had a nice atmosphere and was clearly popular.

 _“The owner’s a marijuana addict and collects Victorian photographs. His wife’s having an affair… with his sister.”_ John had been hearing Sherlock’s voice all day. He’d become able to avoid reacting, but it was grating on his nerves. _“The previous owner was a gambler who had one… two… three illegitimate children. His wife knew, but didn’t care about it. They had another… three together.”_

Lestrade came over, a pint in each hand. “Nice place, isn’t it?”

John could still hear Sherlock’s voice analyzing everything around them. _“One of their daughters died in a fire at a young age…”_

“Yeah,” John replied to Lestrade, “bit crowded, though.”

Lestrade sat facing the corner. “What’ve you been up to?”

_“Be careful about what touches this table, John, you don’t want to know what’s happened on it.”_

“We both know that you want to ask about what’s wrong with me.”

_“There’s nothing wrong with you, John. Well, nothing that isn’t wrong with everyone else. You are quite average.”_

“You’ve got to admit you’ve been acting strangely.”

_“As have you, Garth.”_

“Greg.”

_“Yes, of course, sorry.”_

“What?”

John looked at Lestrade, confused. “Hmm?”

 “You said my name,” Lestrade said.

 _“As I was saying, Gary,_ you’ve _been acting quite strangely since you started shagging my brother.”_

John rubbed his eyes. He was starting to _respond_ to his hallucinations. “Sorry.”

“So what is it?” Lestrade asked.

 “I’ve been hearing things, lately.” John took a sip of his drink, but didn’t taste it at all. “Seeing things, too.”

_“What, I’m just a ‘thing’ now?”_

“What sort of things?”

_“Tell him, John.”_

John sighed. “They’re different things.”

_“Why are you referring to me in plurals?”_

“Okay, it’s only one thing.”

“What is it?”

John stared at the table, terrified of Greg’s reaction. “I keep hearing Sherlock. I’ve seen him, too.”

“That’s not uncommon. After my mum passed, I saw her a sitting at a bus stop in Cardiff.”

“That’s not what this is. I see him in the flat and… I hear him all the time.”

_“You make that sound like a bad thing.”_

“What does he say?” John couldn’t tell if Greg thought him insane or not.

“All sorts of things. He makes deductions, he comments on what people are doing, he walks around the flat in the middle of the night.”

_“It’s not like you shouldn’t be used to all that, John. We did live together for years.”_

“So, just normal Sherlock things?”

“Yes.”

“Have you talked to your therapist?”

_“She couldn’t get the cause of your psychosomatic limp correctly. I wouldn’t put too much hope in her figuring out the cause of this.”_

John looked back up to Greg. “You think I’m losing it.”

Lestrade made a face. “I just think you might need to make sure you’re okay.”

_“You don’t need to worry, John. You’re fine.”_

John pushed his lips forward, but didn’t answer.

Lestrade looked at him. “Can you hear him now?”

_“Isn’t it obvious?”_

John just nodded.

“Christ.” Lestrade finished his drink. “What’s he’s saying?”

John listened for a minute. “He’s insulting you.”

“Shocking.” Lestrade stood up. “I’m going to the toilet. Next round’s on you.”

John still had half his drink left.

_“Do you see that man coming in right now?”_

John looked up in spite of himself.

_“He’s going to try to pick pocket the woman he’s talking to. She’ll catch him, though.”_

John watched as the words were proven correct. The woman responded to his attempts by giving the man a slap across his face.

John picked up his glass to take a sip and found that it was empty. He was sure he hadn’t finished it.

He stood up to get another drink for himself and Greg, giving the pick pocket a wide berth.

Greg was there when he returned.

“So, when did all this start?” he said as John put down the drinks.

John gave him a sidelong glance, noticing the grin on his face. “How much of this are you going to tell Mycroft?”

Lestrade’s face fell. “I’m not telling him anything you don’t want me to.”

_“I admit I trust him, John.”_

“I’d prefer you didn’t tell him about this.”

“I won’t, then.”

“Thanks.”

_“I don’t see what the problem is. Mycroft is nothing if not discreet.”_

“So how’s Mary?”

A sound like an explosion hit John’s ears. He could feel a shockwave slamming into him, propelling him to the floor.

John could feel his hand bleeding and pieces of something hitting him, so he pressed himself to the floor, covering his head with his arms.

Fingers wrapped around his arm and his shoulder was jerked upwards. “John, what happened?” Lestrade was shouting.

John opened his eyes. Most of the people in the bar were staring at him. The building was intact. He looked at his bleeding hand and found it uninjured and wet with beer. Shards of glass littered the floor near him.

“I…I don’t know.”

He waited for Sherlock’s voice to comment, but there was only silence.

The bartender came over. “You okay, mate?”

John nodded. “I’ll clean this up for you.”

“We’ve got this, it’s fine.” He looked up at Lestrade, “Maybe you should bring your friend home now.”

Lestrade nodded and pulled some cash out of his wallet, which he handed to the bartender, “Sorry about the fuss.”

They left the pub without another word and made their way back to Baker Street. John’s legs didn’t seem interested in holding him up properly, so the trek took longer than it usually would have. When they arrived at the house, John pulled the keys out of his pocket and dropped them on the ground. He picked them up with great difficulty and fumbled with them, trying to find the right one and slide it into the lock.

Lestrade eventually took pity on him and plucked the keys from his fingers. The door was open in seconds.

The flat was dark. “Where’s Mary?”

“Out. Friend’s… hen night.” He practically chewed the words out.

“Why don’t I come in and make sure you’re okay?” Lestrade said as he locked the door.

John trudged up the stairs instead of answering and heard Lestrade following after him.

John sat on the couch and curled up.

Lestrade brought him some water. John sat up and drank it. The water tasted like it had come from the digestive system of a cat, but he drank it anyway. Lestrade stood next to the couch, staring at the wall while John sipped from the glass.

“I’m happy you’ve kept this here,” Lestrade said, “This place wouldn’t feel right without it.”

John put the glass on the coffee table in front of him and moaned inquisitively.

“The mess Sherlock made of the wall here.”

“We’re not… keep… it…” Words were a bit beyond him. “Mary… painted it.”

“No, she didn’t.”

John wasn’t particularly interested in existential questions about spray paint smiley faces (he wasn’t even interested in figuring out if 'existential' was the word he was looking for), but he flopped over and looked at the wall.

The face was there. The bullet holes were there. “But… I watched her…”

Lestrade crouched down next to John. “What time is Mary coming home?”

“’Morrow.”

“I’m staying here, then.” He put a hand on John’s shoulder. “Do you want to go to your bed?”

“Yeah.”

Lestrade stood John up, hooked one of John’s arms around his neck, and brought him to the bedroom.

After John was asleep, Lestrade walked back to the living room. He was settling down into one of the armchairs when he heard the floor creaking upstairs. Assuming it was Mary home early from the hen night, Lestrade made his way up the stairs. The door to John’s old room was open, but no one was there. The single bed had a clean set of sheets on it, a dust cover was folded up on the floor. The window was locked from the inside, so there was no way someone had got in the flat.

He decided to take it as a sign and made the bed. He looked at his watch and made a mental note to check on John in half an hour. In the meantime, he decided to call Mycroft.

\--

John woke up feeling much better. He hadn’t dreamt or heard any strange noises in the night.

There was a rustling sound when he left the bedroom. John found Greg in the living room, reading a newspaper.

“Thanks for last night,” John said.

“I’m sure you’d do the same for me.” Greg shifted the paper so John had room. “I helped myself to coffee.”

John got himself tea. He peeked past the wall dividing the kitchen and living room. “Have you eaten?”

“No.”

“Want anything? I’ve got eggs and toast on.”

“I’ll have what you’re having, if it’s not too much trouble.”

Lestrade helped John bring in the food. “I spoke to Mycroft last night,” he said as they sat.

John froze.

“I didn’t tell him anything, but he said he might come by to talk today.”

“What does he want to talk about?”

Greg took a bite of his toast. “He didn’t say.”

John cleaned up after breakfast. He always felt nervous when Mycroft came around, like his mother-in-law or the queen was on her way.

The Jaguar pulled up just before 10:00.

Mycroft came in, a young man trailing behind him. John recognized him as the young man from the hospital, Edmund.

“Is everything alright, Mycroft?” Lestrade said, standing as the man entered the room.

Mycroft turned to Edmund, “We’re fine here. Leave us.”

The door closed and Mycroft turned back to the other men. “I’m afraid I will be unreachable for some time.”

“Something wrong?”

Mycroft frowned. “I can’t say. If there are any major breakthroughs in the case, someone will inform you both.” His phone beeped. “Unfortunately, I must leave soon.” He looked at Greg. “Detective Inspector Lestrade, may I have a word with you?”

Greg nodded. “Can we use the bedroom for a minute, John?”

“Yeah.”

They walked to the room, Mycroft closed the door behind Lestrade. The hinge whined in protest. “I’m sorry this came with so little warning, Gregory.”

“I’m sure you didn’t have any warning on this.” Lestrade put a hand in the small of Mycroft’s back and pulled him close. Mycroft leaned down and they kissed, Lestrade careful to avoid rumpling Mycroft’s clothes. Mycroft cradled Lestrade’s face in his hands.

Lestrade started to pull away, and Mycroft placed a final, chaste kiss on his lips.

Mycroft’s tie was a little crooked, so Lestrade started to fix it for him, but Mycroft grabbed his hands and froze, his eyes to the door of the bedroom. Lestrade followed his gaze and saw that the door was wide open.

He sighed. “If John knows, he knows.” Lestrade whispered. “I trust him.”

Mycroft smiled. “I do, too.” He kissed the backs of Lestrade’s knuckles. When he straightened, he looked a little troubled. “Can you explain to him? I really must go.”

“Of course.” Lestrade finished straightening Mycroft’s outfit, then fixed his own. “Be safe.”

“I will.”

They shared a final, quick kiss and left the room together. As Mycroft reached the living room, John stood up. “Goodbye, John,” Mycroft said, “You will be contacted when I am available again.”

“Okay. Good luck.” John started to move towards the door, but Mycroft held up a hand.

“I can see myself out.” Mycroft looked back at Lestrade. “Goodbye, Detective Inspector Lestrade.”

“See you, Mycroft.” Lestrade watched the door close behind him as John moved to the window. When he thought Mycroft’s car was out of sight, Lestrade cleared his throat to get John’s attention.

John looked over slowly.

“I’m sorry you had to find out about that the way you did. We… we wanted to keep it between ourselves for a while.”

John furrowed his brow, “Find out about what? Mycroft leaving?”

“John we know you walked in on us.”

“I didn’t.”

“You left the door open.”

John looked at him like he’d grown a second head. “I’ve been in here. Mycroft said he wanted privacy, I know better than to interrupt him. Besides, that door hinge squeaks, you’d’ve heard me.”

Lestrade was at a loss for words.

“What did you think I’d seen, anyway? You two snogging or something?” John meant it as a harmless joke, but the look on Lestrade’s face wiped the smile off his face. “You were snogging Mycroft Holmes _in my bedroom?_ ”

“I’m sure that’s not the dirtiest thing that’s happened in there.”

John buried his face in his hands, but Lestrade could see his shoulders shaking—from laughter, he hoped.

“You’re not mad at us?”

John looked up, smiling. “No. I’d prefer you didn’t make out in my room again, but… I don’t mind you two being together. That’s… that’s fine. Even if it wasn’t, what you two get up to isn’t my business,” he thought for a moment, “…unless it’s happening in my bedroom.”

Lestrade chuckled. “Won’t happen again.” John stopped smiling and looked away for a moment. Lestrade had seen him do the same thing the night before. “Can you still hear Sherlock?”

John shook his head. “Not since last night.”

“I’ve been meaning to ask you, what happened?”

John sat down. “I don’t remember very well. I know that I thought I heard an explosion.”

“That’s why you fell over?”

“Yeah. I felt the shockwave and could feel my hands bleeding from shrapnel.”

“No wonder you acted drunk afterwards.” Lestrade watched John seem to listen again. “At least whatever that was seems to have stopped you hearing Sherlock.”

The comment was met with a shrug. “I actually kind of enjoyed it.” John leaned back into the chair. “I miss him.”

“I miss him, too.”

\--

When Mary came home, Lestrade was gone. John greeted her with a warm kiss, one hand pressed to the curve of her belly.

Mary started to unbutton John’s shirt while they were kissing. Her dress was off before they reached the kitchen, they were both naked when they arrived at the bed. John stacked the pillows up so Mary would have some support for her back.

John pressed his lips to Mary’s neck, his hands roaming over her skin.

\--

After they finished, Mary wanted to shower.

John retrieved their discarded clothing, then looked through the post and saw a fat letter addressed to Mary. He sat in his chair and looked through the rest of the mail, but his mind was on whatever Mary had been sent.

John handed it to her after she was done showering.

“It’s about the conference,” she said as she examined its contents.

“What conference?”

“I was invited to a conference in New York.”

“What?”

Mary showed him another letter. “I got this a long time ago. When I mentioned it, you said you didn’t mind if I went.” It was from the Granger Medical Corporation. Mary was invited to attend a conference detailing advancements in the medical field. Training in several procedures would also occur. The conference would run three weeks. Travel and expenses were covered. “I applied to go to one of these before we met. I’d forgotten about them entirely.”

“Mary, you’ll be gone for three weeks!”

“It’ll be fine.”

John wasn’t convinced. He was worried about being alone for so long. “Why don’t you wait until after the baby’s born?”

“There’s a twelve-month waiting list, John. I’m lucky to be invited at all.” Mary pulled the letter from John’s hands and climbed onto his lap, straddling his legs. “I’ll be okay.”

John held her to his chest. “I just don’t want anything to happen to you. I don’t think I could take losing you, too.”

Mary kissed him. “You can never lose me,” she promised.

\--

She left a week later. The night before, John slept with arms wrapped around her. He was worried about her leaving—not because he thought she would get hurt, but because he hadn’t been alone since Sherlock’s death.

Thankfully, he hadn’t heard Sherlock’s voice since the night he went out with Lestrade. The strange occurrences around the flat had ceased, too.

John had offered to go with Mary to Heathrow, but she insisted that he stay at the flat, so John stayed. They shared a long kiss before she left in her taxi. “You be safe, Mrs. Watson.”

Mary beamed at him, “I will.” He helped her into the taxi and waved as the taxi drove off.

John returned to the flat, allowing his face to fall into an expression that showed what he really felt: fear. As he walked into the living, the sight that greeted him confirmed that his worries were justified.

A yellow face stared from the wall behind the couch. Bullet holes surrounded it. Mary had re-painted it before she left. Neither of them could think of an explanation for why it had come back. John sighed.

\--

The second return of the face was only the tip of the iceberg. John noticed that things were moving all over the flat. He would come into the living room and find books scattered around the room, all opened to random pages. Some of John’s clothing went missing. He searched every inch of the flat, even checking his old room, but they were nowhere to be found. The garments showed up again the next day. He came home from getting the shopping to smell cigarettes in flat. Mary’s extra makeup brushes were especially adamant about staying in the kitchen and getting covered in cocoa powder, to the point that John gave up and stopped putting them back.

Most of the flat was freezing cold, regardless of how high he put the heating. John took to wearing coats indoors instead of wasting power.

Nighttime was even worse. John would hear furniture being moved around the flat all night. The doors would open and close. Invisible feet walked throughout the building. John woke up to what he thought was a violin being played, but it stopped the moment his eyes opened.

John wondered how Mrs. Hudson didn’t hear it.

Four days after Mary left, John had been driven half-mad by the noises. When he was sure Mrs. Hudson was safely out of the flat, he screamed into the silence for whatever was disturbing him to leave the flat. The only response he received was one of the chairs in the kitchen scraping across the floor, as if someone had sat down. He shoved the chair back under the table and stalked upstairs to his old room.

John found the gun box he had hidden. It was where he’d kept it when he lived in 221B with Sherlock, at the back of one of the nightstands.

Sleeping with a gun under Mary’s pillow was unsettling, but John couldn’t take it anymore.

Six days after Mary left, John woke up in the middle of the night. The room was so cold that John would have bet that his breath was turning into a fine mist, but John was more concerned with the breathing he could hear coming from the end of the bed. Keeping the rest of his body still, John curled his fingers around the gun. He took a few deep breaths to calm himself and pressed his body up, aiming the gun at the intruder.

His eyes focused on the tall man in the dim light and John felt his grip on the gun loosen to the point that he nearly dropped it when he realized _who_ was standing there.

“ _Sherlock?_ ” John said, his voice shaking.

Sherlock’s eyes widened in surprise, but he recovered after a second. “Hello, John.”


	2. The Soul of Man Under Egotheism

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> At long last, I am very happy to present chapter two! A very special thanks to B (Johnlock-Deductress) for all her help, including making this chapter suitable for human consumption.
> 
> The title is taken from Oscar Wilde's essay, 'The Soul of Man Under Socialism'. 'Egotheism' is identification of oneself with God.

For a moment, all John could do was stare, his mouth hanging open. Sherlock was there. In front of him. _Not dead_. It wasn’t a trick of the light or a hallucination: he could _feel_ that the man in his room was Sherlock.

John didn’t know how long it was before the truth hit him—Sherlock had lied to him _again._ He had faked his death and shattered John’s life into pieces for the _second time_. The part of John that wasn’t busy being thrilled to see his friend alive boiled with rage. “How could you?” John growled.

“What?”

John’s mind retained enough clarity to set the gun down on the bedcovers gently, but he tore himself out of bed and stalked towards Sherlock, ready to pound into the bastard that you don’t fake your death _twice_. His hands came up, ready to grab the lapels of Sherlock’s coat the second he was within reach. “How could you put me through mourning for you a second time? Do you have any idea what you’ve done to all of us?”

Gloved hands rose up in a surrendering position. “I’m so sorry, John. Please, please forgive me.”

All John could think about was what Sherlock had done to him on that train. He’d been tricked into forgiving Sherlock _that_ time. “No. I forgave you once. We’ve been through this before, remember? You—You’ve already come back to life once!”

“John—”

“No.” His eyes were wide with fury. “There is no bloody way I’d forgive you again, you bastard!”

“John, you don’t understand.” Sherlock was backing away from him. Good.

“What don’t I understand? That you’re too much of a machine to realize how much it hurts to lose someone?” Sherlock was nearing the wall of the bedroom now. “That it was so important that you couldn’t tell me the truth _for once?_ ” John watched as Sherlock stopped moving. He looked like he wanted to speak, to explain, but John had no interest in hearing what he had to say. “Was it you making that racket all the time? Moving things about in the flat? Driving me _mad?_ ” John lunged for him, ready to shake some sense into him.

His hands passed through Sherlock’s coat. John found himself falling through his friend, hitting the floor. John stared at his hands.

“I was trying to tell you,” Sherlock said desperately from behind John, “I didn’t lie to you.”

John turned to him. It couldn’t be. He stood slowly, turning around. Sherlock was right in front  of him. John reached forward to touch him, but his hands met with nothing but cold air. John looked up into Sherlock’s eyes, searching for answers, praying that his senses were fooling him.

“You’re not crazy,” Sherlock said, “I believe I told you that before.” He reached forward to touch John’s shoulder, but his hand passed through, a chill following his touch through John’s body. “I _am_ dead, John. I would never lie to you about that again.” Sherlock pulled his hand away and hid it in the pocket of his Belstaff. John watched the pocket bulge as Sherlock’s fingers curled into a fist. “In answer to your other questions, yes, I was moving things around the flat. I’m sorry.”

Feeling the anger drain from him, John sat down on the bed and rested his head in his hands. He felt a presence next to him and saw that Sherlock had sat down, too. The bed didn’t bow under Sherlock’s weight.

“Do you need a moment?” Sherlock asked. “I can leave if you’d like.”

“No!” It came out louder than John intended. Wincing, he continued quietly, “No, I… I just need some time to process.” He took a few deep breaths. “How long have you been…?” He gestured towards Sherlock, not wanting to say the words.

“I believe I’ve been a ghost since my death, but my first clear memories are from my funeral..”

John frowned. “Who else knows that you’re… like this?”

“I’ve tried to make my presence known to others but you’re the only person who has reacted.” He smiled. “So many times, I tried talking to all of you and… nothing, except that time in the pub.”

“I heard you, but I thought…” John shook his head. “Is _that_ why you kept moving the furniture?”

“No.” Sherlock stared down at his hands. “I was bored,” he said with an expression that was almost embarrassed. “I can’t do much like this but I seem to have abilities of some kind. I was testing them.”

“Abilities?”

Sherlock turned around and held out one of his hands towards the discarded gun. He seemed to concentrate, his eyebrows furrowed, until the gun flew to his hand. He placed the gun on the bed between them. “I have to be careful. Holding things takes a lot of concentration.”

John stared at the gun. “So, everything I heard, everything I saw—“

“…Was really me. I’d hoped telling you that you were sane would help you.”

“Sherlock, that made it _worse_.”

Sherlock’s eyes widened at that. “That wasn’t my intention.”

“If you say so,” John replied, smiling a little. Sherlock’s surprise at the finer points of the average mind’s reaction to being told they were sane despite all evidence made the anger still coiled in John ease. For someone who could read people so easily, Sherlock had always understood so little about human nature. He looked at the clock next to his bed and saw that it was almost three. He hadn’t got much sleep, but he was wide awake now.

“Where are you going?” Sherlock asked when John stood up.

“To get something to drink.” He turned to his friend, “Come on.”

Rather than standing, Sherlock disappeared from the bed. Confused, John turned to the door and saw Sherlock standing in the kitchen.

“How did you do that?” John asked.

Sherlock shrugged. “I’m not sure. I only learned to do it recently.”

John watched as Sherlock ran his gloved hands over the counter. “How did you learn to do it?”

“The first time I did it was an accident. I then replicated the circumstances and managed to do it again. I still do it accidentally if I’m not careful.”

Still experimenting, then. It was nice to know that Sherlock hadn’t changed much. John turned on the kettle and started setting up tea. He glanced up at Sherlock, considering offering some to his friend.

Sherlock noticed his confusion, “I’m not able to eat anything.”

John’s face fell at that. There wasn’t much chance of him forgetting that Sherlock was dead, then. He finished making his tea in silence and brought it into the living room so he could drink it as he sat in his chair. Sherlock appeared in his own chair across from him.

Sherlock examined the room silently. There had been almost no change since his death. “You did know that keeping my belongings here wouldn’t bring me back, didn’t you, John?”

John tried not to glare at him. “Of course I knew that.”

“But why keep everything? You knew I was dead, but you didn’t even get rid of the spray paint on the wall.”

John put his cup down hard enough to get Sherlock to shut up. “We tried. Mary’s painted over it twice now. You kept putting it back.”

Sherlock furrowed his brow. “No, I didn’t.”

“There aren’t any other ghosts in this flat, are there?” The question was half-serious.

Sherlock laughed. “No, there aren’t.” He pulled his gloves off and placed them in the pocket of the Belstaff, which was shed and hung over the back of his chair.

John watched Sherlock walk through the room. He stopped at the living room table where they had eaten, fought, and worked together. A thin hand touched the wood, fingers running over it to feel the texture of the grain. Suddenly, Sherlock gasped and jerked his hand away as if burned.

“You okay?” John asked, half-rising to confront a possible threat to Sherlock.

Sherlock held his hand up to his face, observing as if he’d never seen it before. “I could see things that had happened at this table,” he said, looking over at John.

“How?”

“My hands, I believe.” He walked to the music stand near the window and touched the papers on it. He closed his eyes and smiled.

He started disappearing and reappearing around the room, touching items and looking at their pasts. Sherlock finally made his way to the face on the wall and touched it. He stayed there longer than he had with the other objects around the room. John got up and stood next to him; Sherlock’s eyes were unfocused.

“Sherlock?”

He pulled his hand away reluctantly.

“What did you see?”

Sherlock’s eyes met John’s. “I didn’t see anything out of the ordinary, but…” Sherlock placed his index finger on the wall, his head tilted back a little. “It feels… good.”

John placed his own hand on the wall. Nothing. He couldn’t help feeling disappointed. “What does it feel like?”

Sherlock groped for words. “Warm… safe.” He walked over to the window and looked down at Baker Street. “You were right, John.”

John wasn’t used to Sherlock suddenly striking up non-sequitur conversations anymore. “I was?”

“Yes. I always thought that you would be wrong, and that I’d never be able to tell you. But you were right.”

“What was I right about?”

Turning, Sherlock regarded him solemnly. “Do you remember when I asked you what your last thoughts would be if you’d been murdered? It was the day after we met; Lestrade was doing that fake drugs bust on the flat.”

“Yes. I told you my last thought would be ‘Please, God, let me live,’ and you didn’t think it was clever enough.”

Sherlock nodded. “When I was dying,” he began, “I could only think about how I _couldn’t_ die. I _needed_ to survive. I admit I didn’t direct my thoughts at any deity, but I really… _really_ wanted to live.”

“Why?”

Sherlock turned to face John, “Because I needed to protect you.”

“Protect me from what?”

Sherlock opened his mouth, but before he could make any noise, he disappeared.

John waited for him to reappear in another area of the room, but his friend was nowhere to be seen. A quick search of the flat produced no answer. The Belstaff was gone, as well.

He sat in his chair and waited, determined to stay awake until Sherlock’s return. He _needed_ Sherlock to come back, to confirm that he wasn’t just hallucinating.

\--

It was going to be a long night, but he didn’t mind. Long ago he had needed sleep, but now it was simply a way to pass the infinite amounts of time—a way to escape from the crushing tedium.

It was so boring, being in this tiny, dirty room, destined to rot for eternity, forgotten by everyone except his pet, who kept him occupied when possible. He looked around. The room was empty except for himself, about fifteen steps around, but he could only access about half of it. He glanced down at his body and sighed.

Of course, he had chosen to come here. The other option, while always tempting, was not where he wanted to be. The problem was that this place was usually so _boring_.

Tonight, however, would _not_ be boring. Tonight, he would have so.

Much _._

He had always enjoyed having a pet at his disposal and, now that he lacked the ability to amuse himself, he enjoyed having this particular pet at his disposal all the more. Before, he’d thought there was no reason, but now he understood. Pets could, on occasion, be useful.

He didn’t have time for useless emotions such as heartbreak and loss, which was fortunate. Experiencing such trivialities would cause him to label this place as “lonely”. He scoffed at the mere thought.

That being said, he hadn’t minded when he’d had a visitor. Time passed differently here; he wondered how long ago it had been when the man had crashed through the door, screaming and shaking and practically _begging_ for help. The man had been shocked to find _him_ here, but the man didn’t think he was real.

But you can’t get more real than him.

The terrible, blissful pain they’d felt together was like a drug to him, blossoming from the distant points and spreading to every inch of their bodies, ripping through them. 

He wondered if what he felt at that moment was like what normal people felt when they had sex, rutting like beasts, trying to bond and meld and _feel_ another living creature. They had lain together as he mocked the man, their _bodies_ never touching, but they touched in a different way. It was so much more intimate than any sex could ever be.

The pain was so exquisitely beautiful that he helped the man, who was clearly experiencing less enjoyment than he was. It was wonderfully amusing to watch the beautiful features twist in tortured agony as the man fought, striving to leave the little room at the mention of the one person the man would do anything to protect.

He had almost hoped the man would stay, and screamed at him as he escaped from the room, but he knew the man would be back. The man would be forced to come back here, to play with him. Tonight, that game began.

The man’s pyre had been set up long ago; he had tied the man to the post himself and the fire was lit just after he’d come to this place, but the flames were only just beginning to lick at the man’s heels. The man thought the fire had reached him long ago, trying to destroy him but being extinguished at the last minute. How very easily the man had been fooled.

Tonight, that face would twist in agony again—even if he couldn’t be there, cutting into the man’s flesh and drinking his blood—he knew it would, knew that the pain would be worse than anything that man had felt before and although he wouldn’t be inflicting the pain, he would be watching. Brown eyes buried deep within the blue, death behind the life, evil inside the wicked.

He could feel the man awakening from his forced slumber, consciousness returning slowly. Eyes travelling around a small room, mind racing like a rocket through the sky.

His lips turned up in a smile that looked more predatory than anything else, a wolf baring its teeth at the lamb it was about to tear to shreds.

His pet wasn’t with the man yet, but he knew his voice would be heard. “Sic ‘em.”

\--

John woke up in his bed, the sheets twisted around him. He didn’t remember falling asleep—or moving back into the bedroom. Deciding to make some coffee, John walked into the living room to retrieve the cup he’d used during the night. It wasn’t on the table next to his chair.

He looked around the room and realized—to his horror—that there was no evidence of Sherlock having been in the room. Sherlock had touched many of the items in the room and he’d put several things down in the wrong place, but everything was in its correct position now.

It had been a dream.

John sat down, his eyes wide. His hallucinations were becoming increasingly real, if he could believe that a dream had actually happened. He could even almost taste the tea he drank in the dream.

He heard Mrs. Hudson coming up the stairs, so he rubbed his hands over his eyes. She couldn’t know what was happening to him.

“Good morning, dear!” She chirped as she opened the door to the flat. “Sleep well?”

John shrugged.

“Missing Mary?”

“Yes,” John was happy to use that as an excuse.

“Have you eaten breakfast yet?”

“No.”

She went to the kitchen, “You should start taking better care of yourself, John. When the baby’s here, you won’t have much energy to spare.”

John had to admit that being mothered by Mrs. Hudson was nice. He stood up to help her, but the room seemed to spin with the sudden change in his position. John took a few staggering steps and braced himself against the doorframe into the kitchen. _Orthostatic hypotension_ , a half-mad voice (that sounded worryingly similar to Sherlock’s voice) whispered in his mind hysterically.

Mrs. Hudson looked over at him, “Are you okay, John?”

John lost his fight with gravity before he could answer. His eyes swam and he could hear his heart pounding in his chest.

He felt Mrs. Hudson kneeling next to him. “Can you hear me, John?”

He nodded weakly.

“I’m going to call you an ambulance. I’ll be right back.”

“N-No.” John managed to reach out and grab her sleeve. “Please, no.” What if an ambulance came? What if they realized he was seeing things and decided he was too dangerous to be around Mary and the baby?

“John, you need help.”

His grip didn’t weaken. John shook his head and aimed his eyes at approximately where he thought hers were. Mrs. Hudson could be stubborn, but so could John.

John thought that Mrs. Hudson might be frowning (though it was hard to tell since the world kept spinning out of focus and he was probably swaying in spite of sitting propped on the doorframe), but he doggedly held the general area of her eyes. Finally she sighed. “Can I call Detective Lestrade, then?” When he managed to nod, she asked where his phone was. He pointed vaguely in the general direction of the bedroom and listened to her walk away.

John wanted to stop the room spinning, so he pushed out his right arm and lowered himself to lay flat on the floor. He rolled onto his back and stared at the ceiling, but it seemed to swirl around above him, so he decided it would be better to just close his eyes.

A warm hand touched his forehead. “John, can you hear me?”

He lifted his hand instead of answering.

“Detective Lestrade will be here soon.”

There was no reason to respond to that, so John didn’t. He felt Mrs. Hudson lift his head gently and put a pillow underneath it, for which John was grateful.

It didn’t seem like long before the doorbell rang. Mrs. Hudson left for a moment and returned with heavier footsteps following her. Her words faded in with her footsteps.

“…he’s awake, and seems fine, just dizzy, but then he doesn’t seem to want to respond and I can’t tell if that’s a problem with coherence or tiredness or nausea.”

Greg knelt next to John and cut off Mrs. Hudson’s monologue to shake John’s shoulder and half-yell, “John, John!”

“Stop shouting, I can hear you.”

Probably rolling his eyes, Lestrade spoke more softly. “It’s nice to know you still have your wit,” the comment made John’s lips turn up. “You’re sure you don’t want to go to hospital?”

“There’s no reason. I’m fine.”

“You’re lying on the floor, John. I’d take that as an indication of _not fine_.”

“Help me up.” John said, holding up a hand.

Sitting up was a slow process, standing was an even slower one, but eventually John was on his feet and leaning heavily on Lestrade. He hadn’t reopened his eyes yet, fearing the return of the swirling in his vision.

“Bedroom?” Lestrade asked.

“Yes, but let’s be quick about it. I don’t know how long my legs will last.”

“You’re keen, aren’t you?”

It would probably be rude to punch the man who was kind enough to come all the way to Baker Street just to carry him down a hallway, so John decided that a simple “Fuck off” would suffice.

Lestrade smirked at his choice of words, but didn’t comment.

They got to the bedroom without incident. John was lowered to the bed and clapped his hands over his eyes to try to stop the room spinning. It didn’t help as his eyes were still closed.

“I’ll go get him some water,” Mrs. Hudson said.

“What happened?” John heard Lestrade ask.

“I felt like I had lost a good amount of blood,” he replied.

“Are you…” there was a pause, John assumed that Lestrade was making sure Mrs. Hudson couldn’t hear, “Can you still hear him?”

“That’s a bit complicated.”

Mrs. Hudson returned from the kitchen. “I’ve got some water for you, dear. Do you want something to eat, too? I’ve got some leftovers in my flat, if you’d like something.”

“Just water. I don’t think I can keep anything else down.”

“If you feel like you just lost a lot of blood, shouldn’t you have orange juice or something? That’s what they do after you donate blood,” Lestrade interjected.

“I said that I felt like I lost blood, not that I did,” John snarked back. “Besides which, throwing up everything would probably do more harm than good.”

Mrs. Hudson let out a small noise of sympathy. “Poor dear. I’ll let you rest, then.”

“Do you want to talk?” Lestrade asked when Mrs. Hudson had left again. “I’ve got time.”

John managed to open his eyes and looked at Lestrade. “Something happened last night. I mean, for a while, now, there’s been so much happening in the flat that I’ve hardly slept. All sorts of noises, stuff moving. The flat’s been freezing cold, no matter what I do.” John sighed, considering his next words. “I was trying to sleep last night and I woke up and he was in the room with me.”

“Sherlock was?”

“Yeah.”

“John, you can’t be trying to tell me that he faked his death _again_.”

“No, of course not.”

“So how was he here?”

Taking a deep breath and trying to avoid sounding excessively crazy, John replied, “He’s a ghost.”

The answer was met with silence. John didn’t dare look at Lestrade.

“I know how it sounds, really, I do. But I swear it was real.” John told Greg everything that had happened the night before, from him trying to grab Sherlock to Sherlock’s sudden disappearance.

“You said he moved things, were they moved when you woke up?”

“No.”

Lestrade sighed. “I don’t know what to say, John.”

“I know what you’re thinking. It’s fine.”

“I don’t think you’re mad, John. But… this is so far outside the realm of normality.” Lestrade watched John’s fists clench. “Why don’t you get some sleep? We can figure this out when you’ve woken up.” John’s head tilted up in a show of reluctant acquiescence, so Greg made his way to the door.

“Have you told anything about this to Mycroft?”

“You asked me not to, remember?”

John pursed his lips. “Maybe I should talk to him when he’s available again.”

“That’s up to you.” Lestrade turned to the door again. “At some point, I’m probably going to leave for a bit, but I’ll be back as soon as possible. I’ll have my phone.”

“Okay.”

\--

Things had been going poorly for Mycroft Holmes.

It had started over two weeks ago. He had been working, preparing for an overseas trip, when Anthea came in, her face pale.

“Sir, someone is here to see you.”

Mycroft didn’t look up from the papers strewn across his desk. “I told you, I don’t want to be disturbed.”

Anthea took a breath to respond, but her words were cut off as a man cleared the doorway. Mycroft tried to keep his face neutral when he saw Charles Augustus Magnussen in his office.

“You don’t have time for me, Mr. Holmes?”

Mycroft stood slowly, taking his time so he could gather the right words. “I’m sorry. Yes, of course I have time for you, sir.” Treating Magnussen like his superior left a bad taste in Mycroft’s mouth. He looked at Anthea, who looked as afraid as he’d ever seen her. “Leave us.” Mycroft’s attention returned to Magnussen. “Please, sit.”

Anthea tried to sneak past Magnussen, but his hands reached out as she walked. Using her momentum against her, Magnussen pulled her to his chest and buried his face in her neck, breathing deeply. His hands travelled across her body. Anthea stayed calm with a level of personal restraint that amazed even Mycroft. He made a mental note to give her a raise and let her go on an extended vacation as soon as it was possible.

The second she was released, Anthea fled the room.

Magnussen grinned as she left. “She’s a pretty one, isn’t she? You should consider renting her out.”

Mycroft didn’t respond to that. “How may I help you?”

The man sat slowly. “You look tired,” he said. “Don’t you think you could use a vacation?”

Not wanting to be right about what Magnussen meant, Mycroft raised his eyebrows innocently. “What do mean?”

“I wouldn’t want that detective inspector of yours to worry about your health.” Magnussen lifted his feet to rest them on Mycroft’s desk. “I certainly wouldn’t want anything… unfortunate about either of you to appear in any papers.”

“I see what you mean,” Mycroft said softly, but fury raged in the back of his mind. “I _have_ been quite overworked lately.”

Magnussen removed his feet from the desk (Mycroft decided a disdainful sniff was out of the question) and grabbed the other man’s hand. Mycroft had shook Magnussen’s hand on several occasions, and the experience always made him feel disgusted; Magnussen’s hands were always clammy.

“It must be so hard, losing your sibling the way you lost Sherlock,” he rubbed Mycroft’s fingers thoughtfully. “I’d say he was in a better place, but I know how many people he killed for you. They don’t let murderers into heaven.”

“I’m sure my brother would find heaven boring.”

“Yes, eternal suffering is a good way to make oneself feel better about the death of a loved one.” Magnussen lifted Mycroft’s hand to his lips and licked the inside of his wrist. “I’ll let you know when I think you’ve rested enough,” Magnussen said, standing.

Mycroft stood as well. “Would you like me to see you out?”

Magnussen smiled. “I can find my way to the door. Tell that sweet little woman of yours I said goodbye.”

With that, he was gone.

All thoughts of foreign diplomacy banished from his mind, Mycroft started to make preparations for leaving his personal and professional lives until Magnussen was finished buggering up politics.

Within two days, Mycroft was in Oxford, cut off from the world. He brought a secure laptop along, but didn’t risk using it for anything that could be traced back to him.

Reduced to gaining information from unreliable news stories (none from Magnussen’s papers, of course) and reading novels in which he had no interest, boredom gnawed at Mycroft. Occasionally, he would try to figure out what Magnussen’s motive could be for removing him from everything, but he couldn’t think of any answers.

Those thoughts often led him to thinking about Sherlock. Together, they had almost always been able to solve any puzzle placed before them.

Mycroft forced himself to clear his mind when he thought about Sherlock. It was too late to save him.

Thirteen days passed and there was still no word from Magnussen. Mycroft started to wonder if he was to remain in exile indefinitely.

It was just past four o’clock when he was awoken by a feeling of wrongness. He looked around his room, but it was vacant except for himself. Feeling unconvinced, he tried to stand, but his legs collapsed beneath him. Managing to land sitting on the bed instead of sprawled on the floor, Mycroft leaned over, his elbows resting on his knees.

The room seemed too cold, but he could feel sweat on his brow. A wave of nausea washed over him, but he kept his mouth closed and took several deep breaths. There was no way he could get to the bathroom in time if his stomach rejected its contents, so Mycroft forced the queasiness away with willpower that was impressive, even for him.

Laying back down, he decided to try to sleep the illness away.

\--

John slept for what felt like a few hours and woke feeling slightly better, but ravenous. He sat up, found that the room didn’t spin, and stood up.

He heard someone talking in the living room. Thankful that Lestrade was there to help him if he felt sick again, he stopped for a moment in the bathroom, then went to the living room. Turning the corner, he was about to thank Greg for staying, but the man in the room wasn’t Lestrade.

“You did know that keeping my belongings here wouldn’t bring me back, didn’t you, John?” Sherlock was there again. He turned to John and scowled. “We’re in the middle of a conversation and you just leave me here to talk to myself?” Looking John up and down, his scowl deepened. “You _slept_ while I was standing here talking to you?”

John took a few deep breaths before responding. “I am not doing this anymore.”

This took Sherlock aback. “Doing what?”

“You’re just a hallucination, nothing else. I’m not putting up with it. I don’t know if you’re caused by the post-traumatic stress or grief or whatever but I’m _not going to see you anymore._ ”

“John, what the hell are you talking about?”

“You aren’t Sherlock. You’re not real.”

“John— ”

“Stop talking to me in his voice!” John was so consumed with rage that he didn’t hear Mrs. Hudson asking about the shouting or Lestrade telling her not to worry before coming up the stairs. “Stop pretending to be him!”

“John!”

He whirled around, ready to attack whoever was behind him, whoever was mocking him for whatever was happening to his mind.

When John saw that it was Lestrade, he stopped.

“I heard you shouting. What is it?”

“Lestrade, perhaps you can talk some sense into him.”

“I told you to shut up!” John barked at the hallucination. He swallowed and looked over to Lestrade.

“You can see him now?”

He nodded towards Sherlock’s chair. “Over there. See anything?”

Lestrade glanced in the direction towards which John had gestured. “No.”

That was more than enough to convince John. He looked at the hallucination of his friend. It looked as frustrated as he felt.

“Greg, I’m going to get my coat. I’d like you to take me to a hospital to be sectioned.”

“John— ”

“Please. I don’t want to be a danger to my wife and my child.” He walked into the hallway, uninterested in waiting for an answer. He’d just entered the bedroom when there was a bang from the living room.

Running back in, he found Lestrade practically cowering against the wall, his eyes wide. “The table—something knocked the books off of the table—but there was nothing there.”

“ _What?_ ” John looked around the room. The hallucination looked up at him.

“I am _not_ a hallucination, John.” It growled, leaning against the table. It knocked more papers and books off the table.

“Can you see this, Greg?”

“Yes.”

“I’m not crazy?”

“No, you’re not,” Sherlock said.

\--

When Mycroft awoke, the feeling of illness was still present. He practically rolled out of bed and made his way to the en suite bathroom, where he had to prop himself up against the wall while his stomach relieved itself of its contents.

Once he finished, Mycroft flushed the evidence of his ailment away and washed his face and arms over the sink, not trusting his balance in the shower.

Changing his clothes into something that didn’t reek of vomit was another difficulty, but he eventually sat back down on his bed in fresh attire. As he contemplated whether or not his symptoms warranted calling a doctor, his musings were interrupted by a phone call from Anthea.

“Yes?” he said, closing his eyes so he couldn’t see the room spinning.

“It’s your mother, sir. She says it’s urgent.”

“Put her through,” he responded.

As he spoke to his mother, he learned that it certainly _was_ urgent.

\--

John sat down, his eyes wide. Lestrade was still standing by the wall, his arms crossed in a display of calmness that the paleness of his face betrayed.

No longer feeling like hurling things around the room, Sherlock happily ignored the two of them, choosing instead to examine the room and its contents, seemingly unaware that John and Lestrade were watching his every move.

It must have been strange for Lestrade to see random items floating around, but he seemed to be handling the situation pretty well.

“So, what happened last night?” John asked as Sherlock flipped through a first-edition copy of _Leaves of Grass_ he’d pulled from one of the shelves.

Both Sherlock and Lestrade looked up at the question.

“What about last night?” Sherlock asked, his fingers running down the pages of the book.

“You vanished.”

Replacing the book on a shelf, Sherlock frowned. “No, I didn’t. We stayed up all night talking.”

John looked at Sherlock’s gloved hands. “What did we talk about?”

“Trivial things. What I’ve been doing since I died.”

“What about your hands?”

A black eyebrow quirked upwards. “My hands?”

“You don’t remember, then.” John thought for a moment. “Actually, when I walked in before, you were saying something you had already said last night.”

“What does this have to do with my hands?”

John stood up. “Take your off gloves.” Sherlock did as he was bid and stood behind John after he stood at the smiley face on the wall. “Touch it.”

Again, Sherlock obeyed. His long fingers touched the wall and he breathed in deeply.

“My God,” came a voice from behind them.

John had forgotten that Lestrade was in the room, watching them. “What?”

“I saw him.” He squinted a little. “There’s distortion where he’s standing, but I saw him for a second.”

John smiled a little at that. It was nice to know he wasn’t going crazy. Lestrade seeing Sherlock was a good sign.

Turning back to Sherlock, John realized that he was still touching the wall, his forehead pressed to the wallpaper.

“Are you okay?”

“Yeah.” Sherlock levered himself away from the wall. He looked at John. “How did you know about that?”

“You found out about it last night,” John did a double take and leaned close to Sherlock, staring into his eyes. He stood like that for a while, which seemed to make Sherlock uncomfortable.

“Why are you staring at me, John?”

 “There’s something wrong with your left eye. It’s the wrong color.”

Sherlock went to the mirror over the fireplace and pulled open his eyelid so he could see the entirety of his iris. His left eye was an flat, unnatural shade of green, without any variations in hue or saturation. It looked more like green glass than an iris. Lestrade didn’t follow his movements, or react to a reflection in the mirror. It seemed that whatever supernatural force allowed Sherlock to be seen also allowed him to see his own reflection, but the same ability was reserved only for those who could already see him.

 “You’re right, John,” he said. “Both of my eyes have always been partially heterochromic, with both sectoral and central heterochromia. This is complete heterochromia.” He turned to John, who was relaying the information to Lestrade. “Were my eyes like this last night?”

“I don’t think so, I think I would’ve noticed.”

“Something happened last night, then. You said I vanished?”

“Yeah, we were in the middle of a conversation.”

“What were we talking about?”

“You said that you…” John paused, “You thought about me when you were dying.”

Those impossible eyes scrutinized him. “What did I think about?”

“You’ve forgotten that, too?”

A sigh. “Yes.”

He felt uncomfortable talking about it in front of both Sherlock and Lestrade. “You wanted to live so you could protect me.”

“From whom did I want to protect you?”

John shook his head. “That was the last thing you said.”

Sherlock pressed his hands together and held them to his lips, thinking. “I assume I’ve been dead for several weeks.”

“Yes,” John replied.

“And Mycroft is heading the investigation?”

“Yes.”

“Has he found anything?”

“No.”

“If _he_ hasn’t found anything by now, then he won’t find anything—the killer’s too smart to leave any traces behind.” His brows furrowed. “Which means there’s no risk of incarceration. Now, if that isn’t a concern, why would they take me away from here last night and erase my memories? They’re worried about something _else_ , but what?” Mismatched eyes landed on John. “You know my killer.”

John felt the blood drain from his face.

“Whoever murdered me must have somehow known I was about to tell you their identity.”

“How can you know that? Whether or not I know them, if you told me, I’d have proof.”

“What proof? The words of a ghost? _You_ know that I’m telling the truth, but no one else will believe that. Whoever did this didn’t want _you_ to have any reason to suspect them.”

 “John?” He’d forgotten Lestrade was even in the room.

After taking a few deep breaths to calm himself, John looked at him. “He says I know his killer.”

“We should call Mycroft.” Greg’s voice was quiet but strong.

“We can’t.”

“Why not?” Sherlock asked.

“He’s not available.”

“How long has it been?”

It took a moment for John to remember. “Almost two weeks.” It seemed longer, but every day after that night in Magnussen’s office had seemed like an eternity.

“Did he tell you anything?”

“Of course not.”

Sherlock walked around the room, a cold breeze following behind him. “There’s something wrong. Mycroft wouldn’t be gone for so long.” John watched him pace. “Something’s happened. He isn’t safe because of it, there’s no other possibility.”

Knowing better than to tell Lestrade that Mycroft was likely in danger without evidence to support it or any way to keep him from worrying, John kept that to himself.

“I need more data. John, did I tell you anything else?”

Pursing his lips as he tried to remember everything Sherlock said and did, he looked around. John’s eyes landed on the hallway. “I know it’s not useful, but you showed me that you could do this… teleportation thing.”

“How?”

“You didn’t explain how it worked, but you said you’d done it accidentally and then replicated it.”

“Unimportant,” Sherlock said, waving a hand in the air dismissively. “Before I died, did I tell you anything?”

Closing his eyes, John tried to remember the day Sherlock died. Sherlock was waking up after his heart had stopped… his fingers twitching… eyes open… looking around the room… coughing… trying to speak… a single word…

“Mary,” John’s heart stopped. “The first thing you said was ‘Mary’.”

 Lestrade could connect the dots. “Are you saying _Mary’s_ involved?”

“Of course not!” Sherlock snapped.

John let out the breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding.

“Why on earth would Mary kill me _now_? She has no motive and has had countless opportunities.”

As he continued to list reasons why Mary couldn’t be involved, John looked over to relay this to Lestrade, but was stopped when he saw Greg staring at the spot where Sherlock was standing, a funny little smile on his face. John immediately understood that expression.

“You can see him?”

Lestrade just nodded, watching Sherlock continue his deductions. His smile disappeared when his phone suddenly started chirping an alert. “Lestrade.” His eyes met John’s. “Where? No, I can get there. Just a second.” He held the phone to his shoulder. “There’s been a murder.”

Sherlock’s eyes lit up. “Can we come?”

Looking torn, Lestrade glanced at John, who rolled his eyes. Neither of them had forgotten Sherlock’s preferred behavior at crime scenes.

When they didn’t immediately answer, Sherlock’s eyes grew wider, his lips turning down in an approximation of an angelic expression. “Please? I haven’t had anything to do since I died.”

“You can’t remember anything since you died!” John said.

“That doesn’t mean I haven’t been bored.”

Lestrade gave in. “You can come, but you can’t touch anything or distract me.”

Thrilled that he could get out of the house and give his mind something to do, Sherlock agreed without trying to make any changes to the deal.

Holding the phone back to his ear, his attention returned to whomever was on the other side. “I’ve got John with me. No, he won’t be coming in. He was feeling poorly earlier and I just want to keep an eye on him.” His eyes turned upwards in irritation. “Get back to work, I’ll be there soon.”

When Lestrade looked back up, Sherlock was already gone.

\--

John watched Sherlock from the passenger seat of Lestrade’s car. He was bouncing his legs, fingers drumming on his thighs. Several times, he had insulted Lestrade’s driving or complained about the traffic. Lestrade had countered his complaints by threatening to turn around, which had made John stifle a grin. It was a perfect picture of Bored Sherlock, and it calmed his nerves a little. He couldn’t help questioning whether or not he really _was_ insane, and it helped to see Sherlock behaving so normally and Lestrade responding in turn.

By the time they reached the crime scene, Sherlock had irritated Lestrade enough that Lestrade had banned him from entering the house. (John had noticed Lestrade’s eyes were wrinkled at the corners in a covert smile.)

Surveying the crime scene investigators, some of whom he knew, John tried to strike up conversation with Sherlock. Sometimes, he could get Sherlock to calm down from his bored moods, and it was worth a shot.

Unfortunately, Sherlock was having none of it. He continued to drum on his leg, mismatched eyes taking in everything around them, commenting on what type of crime it was, based on the tools the investigators were bringing in and the kinds of people present.

“Please, can I go in, John? I won’t annoy Graham.”

John gave him a sidelong glance. “If you can get his first name right, I’ll let you go.”

A deep scowl formed on the ghost’s face. “That’s hardly fair.”

“No, it’s not.”

“Garth?”

“No.”

“Gordon?”

“No.”

“Gabriella?”

“That’s a girl’s name!”

“That doesn’t mean anything,” Sherlock replied, looking strangely offended. “Gibbs?”

“I think that’s a surname.”

Sherlock growled in frustration.

“I’ll give you one more guess.”

Sherlock pressed his hands to his temples in a clear attempt to use his mind palace.

“Grant?”

John tried not to actually laugh at Sherlock, but he felt his lips tilting up at the corners, “Sorry, no.”

Sherlock pouted at him. “Honestly, I don’t see what the—”

When the statement remained unfinished, John turned to look at Sherlock, but he was gone.

\--

The body had been there for several days, so the room smelled awful. Lestrade didn’t envy any of the SOCOs currently trying to eat their lunches.

The team had made a good start at collecting the evidence, but the body still had to be released by the medical examiner.

Lestrade looked around the room, trying to see if any evidence had been missed. The victim, Owen Connor, was on the floor, a small pool of blood was beneath one of his arms. It wasn’t enough blood loss to kill him, though. The door was locked from the inside, a chair had been propped up against it from the outside. The window was painted shut. If Connor’s neighbor hadn’t come to check up on him, the body could’ve been there for ages.

Thankfully, everyone in the room had left for lunch when Sherlock suddenly appeared at his side.

“—Problem is! It’s not like I _need_ to know what it is!”

“Shit, Sherlock,” he hissed, “I thought I told you to stay in the car!”

Sherlock looked around as if he didn’t know where he was. “I _was_ in the car.”

Lestrade’s phone buzzed in his pocket. He glanced down; it was from John.

_S gone._

Looking back at Sherlock, he replied, _He’s with me._ “Why are you here?” he whispered at Sherlock.

“I don’t even know how I got here.” His eyes travelled around the room and Lestrade was hardly shocked when he started making deductions about his surroundings. “The man was killed by a painter, small, female, judging by the size of her hands. It may have been a pair, but they were similar in size if that’s the case. I’d suggest checking his finances, look for payments to companies that paint residential properties.”

“I don’t need your help.”

“Of course you do. Why else would you let me come along?”

Lestrade was about to answer when a forensic technician came in. “Were you talking to someone, sir?” she asked.

“No, just thinking out loud.”

Sherlock scoffed at that and started to look around. The forensic technician didn’t even notice when she walked through him as he examined the body. He walked around the room, staring at seemingly insignificant areas of the walls and floor.

Watching him step through the walls out of the corner of his eye, Lestrade checked the photographs of evidence collected earlier.

Sherlock came back in through the walls. “Lestrade, there’s something wrong.”

He didn’t answer, but looked at Sherlock to signify that he was paying attention to him.

“This room’s too small. You’re missing several feet of space.” He walked to the one wall in the room that was brick. “I can’t walk through this wall, either.” To prove his point, he pressed his fingers to the wall, but they didn’t pass through it. “It’s like this all the way around.”

Moving to stand next to him, Lestrade studied the wall in silence. It was wrong. The wall on the other side had no bricks. One brick was about half an inch out from the wall. When he touched it, it moved a little.

“Knight,” he said to the technician, “come here.” She did as he asked. “Take a look at this wall.”

“What about it, sir?”

“Are there any other brick walls in this house?”

She thought for a minute. “I haven’t checked all of them.”

“The room on the other side of this doesn’t have a brick wall. Do you have the measurements for the house?”

Knight nodded.

Lestrade read through the numbers, quickly doing the math in his head. “This house is missing five feet on the inside.” His eyes turned to the wall. “And I bet I know where they’ve gone.”

Removing the loose brick from the wall took a while. A small mound of dust formed beneath it as he worked. Sherlock watched with fascination as Lestrade wiggled it free.

Once the brick was gone, Lestrade poked his torch through the little hole. There was definitely something behind the wall. It looked human.

“Well, we’ve got our work cut out for us.”

\--

John welcomed the solitude that Sherlock’s sudden departure had given him. He’d hardly slept since Mary left for New York and it was wonderful to be able to be alone with his thoughts, no fear of strange occurrences or his friend appearing before him.

He wondered if he’d ever get over the fact that Sherlock was a ghost. Perhaps, now, they could find whoever killed him…

Quite a bit of his time had been spent pondering who had motive to kill Sherlock. He’d run through everyone he could find from Sherlock’s past: classmates, old clients, people Sherlock had put away, civilians that Sherlock had irritated. No one had both means and motive.

Staring out of the car window, John looked around; the area outside the building was a flurry of activity. He couldn’t say that he hadn’t missed crime scenes and the excitement of fighting crime alongside Sherlock.

Sherlock’s return had reminded him of what life had been like before Sherlock jumped from Bart’s. Even since his first return from the dead, their relationship had changed. Sherlock couldn’t be John’s whole life anymore, not now that John had Mary and a baby on the way.

John was shocked out of his thoughts by a strange feeling. It felt like a whisper of ghostly fingers touching him, but he didn’t feel on his skin, or even inside his body. It was like someone else was in his mind, telling him that he needed to be busy, needed to work.

He looked around, but he was alone in the car.

\--

Sherlock had kindly held his tongue while Greg and his team worked to get through the wall to the second body—or, the first body, since it had clearly been there for several years.

Owen Connor’s body had been cleared and removed from the room to prevent any dust from the wall from contaminating evidence involved in the investigation into his murder.

It took a while for them to remove enough bricks from the wall to get into the tiny area and start examining the other corpse. Sherlock still couldn’t get into it, and he pointed out some markings on the floor to Lestrade, who did his best not to react. It was no aid to his efforts that Sherlock started pickpocketing Anderson’s possessions and moving his tools.

There were lines emanating from the corpse, spiraling out to the walls. Some of them crept under the carpet in the previously open area of the room.

But the most interesting thing about the room was the mark on the corpse’s throat. Lestrade’s eyes went wide when he saw two triangles that looked burned into the body, just like the mark found on Sherlock just after he had been taken off life support.

Anderson examined the body quietly. “What do you think this marking is?” he asked Lestrade. “Some sort of cult symbol?”

Greg shrugged. “It could be a calling card.”

“The body’s been here so long, there can’t be much evidence left.”

Sherlock sighed dramatically. “Of course there’s evidence. There’s always evidence.”

As the ghost made deductions about the victim (she worked at a small dry-cleaners, had three children, and was happily married to a man she met at university), Lestrade hid a smile. It was nice to have Sherlock back, even if it was only half-way.

\--

When they finally returned to Baker Street, the sun had long since set.

The building was dark, but they could hear Mrs. Hudson moving around in 221A as they walked through the door and up the stairs. As the three men filed into the flat, they could see a dark figure seated in John’s chair.

John and Greg froze, but Sherlock stepped through them so he could see who had broken in. He confirmed the intruder’s identity and looked up. “It’s Mycroft.”

Greg was at Mycroft’s side in seconds. He crouched down, one hand resting on Mycroft’s shoulder, shaking him gently. “Mycroft, love,” he whispered.

John stifled a laugh when Sherlock looked up at him in obvious confusion, but neither of them made a sound as Mycroft started to stir.

“Hello, Gregory,” his voice was thick with exhaustion.

“What are you doing here? Is something wrong?”

Mycroft smiled at him. “It’s probably nothing to be concerned about.” He stood, his long body unfolding slowly.

“So something _is_ wrong?”

“Yes.”

“What is it?” Mycroft turned quickly, as if he hadn’t realized John was in the room. Although he had been turned towards him, Mycroft hadn’t noticed his brother’s presence.

“I fear it may be possible that the two of you are in danger.” Mycroft lifted his left hand and examined it. John could see tremors running through Mycroft’s body. “I have reason to believe my family has already been targeted.”

John’s eyes travelled to gaze at Sherlock, then back to Mycroft. “What do you mean?”

Mycroft had seen John’s attention shift. “My parents and I all became ill this morning. Our symptoms were identical, as was the time we experienced them, even though we have not been in contact for several weeks.”

“What do you mean, ‘you all became ill at the same time’?” Sherlock asked. It was only though the force of his will that John didn’t respond or look at him. “How could someone cause an illness like that?”

“When was this?” John asked, instead of repeating Sherlock’s inquiries.

“About four o’clock this morning.”

“Four _this morning_?”

“Yes?”

John felt like a puzzle was starting to come together in his head. He couldn’t see the whole picture yet, but the image was becoming clearer. “It can’t be a coincidence.” Feeling strong than he had in a long time, John looked up at Mycroft. “I know you’re going to think I’m going crazy, but your brother isn’t gone. He’s…” John struggled to find the right words. “He’s a ghost. He’s here.”

Mycroft’s eyes narrowed.

“I know—I know it sounds crazy. But I’ve been seeing him since the funeral. Greg’s seen him, too.”

Lestrade nodded when Mycroft’s gaze met his own. The icy blue eyes returned to John. “Prove it.”

Taken aback by the request, John looked at Sherlock. John recognized that Sherlock was making deductions about his brother, so he let his friend think.

After several moments, Sherlock ducked his head and started to speak. “I love you, Mycroft.”

John was about to relay the statement to him, but Mycroft was already looking straight at Sherlock, his eyes wide.

Sherlock hadn’t seen his brother’s reaction. “I know there were times when you questioned it, but I’ve always looked up to you and I’ve always loved you.”

“Oh, Sherlock,” Mycroft whispered, causing the ghost to finally look up. “I’m so sorry.”

“You didn’t cause this, did you?” Sherlock asked, his head cocked in confusion.

Smiling, Mycroft replied, “No.” He rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “What happened to your eye?”

“I don’t know.”

John took that as his cue to fill in what he could. “He appeared last night at about three. He was around before them, but I never saw him clearly.”

“In what way were you able to perceive him?”

“I could hear him talking. He moved stuff around the in flat. Sometimes, I could hear footsteps.”

“Did you do anything else?” Mycroft asked his brother.

“I don’t remember. I remember appearing to John last night, but apparently I disappeared and reappeared this morning. I don’t remember anything before that.”

“Do you remember who killed you?”

“No. I know I went to Magnussen’s office and that I was shot, but not by whom.” Sherlock glared at his brother. “More importantly, why aren’t you surprised? John and Garrett—”

“ _Greg_.”

“…Greg were shocked to find out about my current state _and_ the existence of ghosts, quite understandably. You were only surprised to know that _I_ am one.”

“Because I’ve known about ghosts for many years, obviously.”

“But I didn’t—”

“Do you really think I would allow you to become involved in the supernatural? You would have gotten yourself into deeper trouble than I could have ever helped you with in a matter of days.”

Sherlock had to concede to that. “You said John and Lestrade were in danger.”

“Yes. I believe someone may be targeting those who were close to you.”

“Why is that?”

“Your entire family and your best friend all became ill within hours of one another. Would you not call that suspicious?”

“ _You_ were ill?” Sherlock asked John.

“When I woke up this morning.”

“You’ve remained unaffected, Gregory?”

“Yeah.”

Sherlock sat on his chair, his fingers steepled in front of his lips. “I need data. Everything you know about my murder, everything that’s happened since then.”

“I’ll have your file delivered.”

“We found another body today,” Lestrade said as Mycroft pulled out his phone. “Similar marking on this one to what was found on Sherlock and Barrett.”

“Marking?”

“Your doctor found it after you died,” Mycroft explained. “It was on your chest.”

Unbuttoning his shirt, Sherlock looked up at his brother. “And you found this marking on someone else?”

“Yes. A man killed in 1963. You won’t find the marking on yourself now—” Mycroft stopped speaking when his brother opened his shirt, revealing the mark on his chest. He shook his head. “I’ve never heard of a ghost retaining a marking, especially one created so soon before death.”

“Why not?”

“A ghost should appear as a one sees oneself. Sherlock was never aware of that marking before his death. For it to be there now means that there was a change to his soul when that mark was laid.” He took a deep breath. “In short, you’ve been cursed, little brother.”

“ _Cursed_?”

“Yes.” Mycroft reached out towards the ghost, his hand hovering over Sherlock’s sternum. “It was laid by a very powerful force, as well.”

“Can we do anything it?”

“We would need more information.”

Sighing, Sherlock leaned back in the chair. “John, you said I was going to tell you my murderer’s identity when I vanished.”

“Yes.”

“It’s likely we all know who my killer is. Balance of probability is it’s whoever shot me. They failed the first time, so they decided to try again, this time making it so I couldn’t _not_ die.”

“What about that woman, Janine?” Lestrade said. “Her fingerprints were all over your room, even on the machine that gave you morphine.”

“No, I remember her visiting me. She only turned the morphine off.”

“She sold you to the tabloids!”

“After my death, I assume she rescinded those statements.”

Lestrade sighed. “You’re right.”

“John, has anything else happened?”

John pursed his lips, thinking.

Lestrade snapped. “What about that night at the pub, John? When you collapsed.”

Remembering that night took a strange amount of effort. “I felt like a bomb had gone off. I could feel the pressure wave and the shrapnel hitting me and everything.”

“Were you talking about my murder?”

“No. We were just chatting.”

“Perhaps I was going to tell you something about my killer then, as well.”

Mycroft’s phone chirped an alert. “Someone is outside with the file; the package will be disguised as a takeaway delivery. I’m afraid I’m not able to retrieve it.”

“I’ll get it, then,” John said.

When he returned, Mycroft was speaking to Sherlock. “We will have to investigate your death and the deaths of the others with similar curse marks as quietly as possible. Whomever it is we’re dealing with is clearly very dangerous.”

“I’m a ghost, Mycroft. How many people will even be able to see me?”

“Few, but if your killer can see you, there’s no guessing what they’ll do to you this time.”

“It’s not like they can kill me again.” Sherlock smiled when he said it, but his grin faded when he saw the look on Mycroft’s face. “Can they?”

“If someone is powerful enough, there are very few limits to what damage their magic can cause. Destruction may be the least of your worries.” He thanked John when he was given the three folders John had received; one was given to Sherlock, another was handed back to John.

For a second, it looked like the folder would fall through Sherlock’s hands. His eyes narrowed, and the papers stayed in his grasp.

Mycroft handed the last folder to Lestrade. “This is everything you should need to know about the supernatural.” After a quick glance at his watch, Mycroft sighed. “I’m afraid I must depart. Gregory, would you like to come with me?”

Lestrade’s shoulders sagged. “I drove here.”

“Edmund can take your car home, if you’d like.”

Perking up, Lestrade started to agree, but his eyes met John’s and he frowned. “Will you be okay?’

Nodding, John smiled. “Why don’t you go so you two can make out somewhere that isn’t my flat?” There was a rustling of papers and John saw that the papers Sherlock had been rifling through had all fallen to the floor.

Lestrade was grinning and John could see a tell-tale brightness in Mycroft’s eyes, but he decided not to tease Sherlock any more.

Returning to the flat after seeing the two men off, John suddenly felt exhausted. The stress he’d been feeling coupled with his restless nights had finally seemed to catch up with him. He looked at Sherlock, who had collected the dropped papers and was reading through them.

The sight of his best friend, single-mindedly focusing on a murder (even if it was his own), brought him back to a time before Sherlock’s faked suicide. John couldn’t deny that a part of him missed those days, but he couldn’t return to them. Married and with a child on the way, he had moved on from the battlefield that was Sherlock’s world.

Sherlock looked up at him and John realized he’d been staring at the ghost, his mind stuck on the past. “You should sleep,” Sherlock suggested. “You look dead on your feet.”

“Yeah.” He studied the ground for a moment, “Will you… still be here tomorrow?”

A smile graced Sherlock’s lips. “Of course.

John considered trying to read the packet of information Mycroft had given him, but decided against it. He’d have no trouble sleeping tonight.

\--

John was woken up by sunlight streaming across his face. It was bizarrely serene. He could hear Sherlock talking to himself in the kitchen, and for a moment, he forgot the past three years had happened.

The fact that he was lying in what had once been Sherlock’s bed jerked him back to the present.

He found Sherlock in the living room; photographs were pinned to the wall.

“Lestrade emailed you the information they’ve gathered about the victim they found in the wall yesterday. She had similar markings to the ones on Barrett and myself. By the way, you’ve gotten lazy with your passwords again.”

Rolling his eyes in mock irritation, John walked back into the kitchen. He’d be able to better handle Sherlock Holmes after he’d had some coffee.

“We need to speak to Samuel Green, the son of the man believed to be Barrett’s killer. He may be able to shed some light on our killers.”

“By ‘we’ I assume you mean me.”

“I doubt he’ll appreciate being questioned by a ghost. Lestrade also mentioned that the autopsy on the immurement victim will be performed in three days.”

“Immurement victim?”

“The woman in the wall.”

“You want to go to that, as well?”

“Of course. Samuel Green is in London again. We can talk to him this afternoon.”

“Sherlock, I’m working today.”

“Call in.”

“I can’t exactly use the ‘my mad best friend needs me for a case’ excuse anymore, can I?”

Sherlock scoffed, but didn’t press the issue.

After making himself breakfast and some coffee, John sat down with the packet of papers Mycroft had left and started reading.

The packet started with a Table of Contents. John decided to skip directly to the section labelled ‘Ghosts’.

_The most common supernatural beings one encounters in modern society are ghosts. While interactions with other supernatural beings do happen, non-spectral beings are going extinct as humans develop their previously-unpopulated habitats. Ghosts, however, can easily live in close quarters with humans with few issues._

_A ghost can be created by two methods. When a person dies with extreme regrets or unfinished business, their inherent power can gather in their soul and allow them to continue existing. The other way for a ghost to be created is through a Maker. The Maker is a powerful sensitive who, either through use of magic or unconscious desire, will coalesce spectral energy into the soul of the deceased, thus linking them both._

_There are four stages of existence for a ghost, called Phases. They will always occur in the same order, though the amount of time they take to occur varies from person to person. The documented minimum for each stage is six months._

_When a ghost is created, they are classed as Poltergeists. These are the weakest and most common type of ghosts. They can only be perceived by extremely powerful sensitives and their Maker, if they have one. According to sensitives, even other ghosts may have difficulty seeing Poltergeists in their earliest days. Poltergeists are the source of most haunted house stories, as a Poltergeist will often move items and speak to inhabitants of their location as a way of learning what they are able to do._

_After a minimum of six months, a ghost can change Phase and become a Perceptible. The change is usually instigated by the ghost developing the ability to manifest to less-sensitive people and experiencing very strong emotions. Perceptibles also will begin to regain emotions from when they were alive. (It is theorized that ghosts in the Poltergeist phase are only partially aware so as to first adapt to existence as a ghost without having to also cope with the regrets that they died with.) Sensitives of most power and ability levels, as well as some non-sensitives, are able to see Perceptibles (hence the classification), but not touch them. Other ghosts may be able to touch Perceptibles, but this is yet unconfirmed._

_A Perceptible’s emotions will, over time, become increasingly volatile. When they begin to become frequently angry, especially with nothing to provoke their anger, they are beginning to enter the Vengeful phase. The threshold that defines their classification as a Vengeful spirit is killing; their usual first victim is either their murderer or the person who wronged them most in life. After their first victim, the Vengeful will pursue other people who wronged them. Based on collected evidence, researchers and sensitives believe that ghosts kill their victims in order of who caused most offense to them when they were alive. Some still-coherent, early-stage Vengeful have told sensitives that they feel an emptiness akin to hunger and that killing helps to briefly alleviate the emptiness._

_Ghosts in the next Phase, Hollow Hearts, gradually lose the ability to feel any emotion other than anger; this is possibly due to the lives that they have taken. Their perception of affection changes as well; the people they loved most in life, who were safe from attack when the ghost was Vengeful, are now considered people who have wronged them. Some sensitives have theorized that Hollow Hearts feel that their loved ones have forgotten and abandoned them and thus they become people who have wronged them. Another theory holds that all emotions felt by a Hollow Heart becomes interpreted as anger. After a Hollow Heart has killed their dearest loved one and, if they have one, their Maker, a Hollow Heart will begin to kill indiscriminately. Their targets are usually people with some degree of sensitivity and with each kill their strength grows. Hollow Hearts are therefore extremely dangerous and so powerful that they can only be exorcised by extremely powerful sensitives, but exorcising a Hollow Heart is a difficult, risky undertaking even in the best of situations._

_On the subject of exorcism, it is possible to exorcise ghosts of every level, but as ghosts progress through the Phases, exorcism becomes progressively harder. Sensitives theorize that exorcisms work by dispersing a ghost’s spectral energy and stopping their ability to regenerate or gather further spectral energy. Because ghosts become more able to gather and retain spectral energy the farther into the Phases they progress, the difficulty of exorcising a ghost is proportionate to their Phase. It should be noted that exorcism is not a method of killing ghosts but rather a method of forcing the ghost to move on. While it is possible to kill ghosts, doing so is difficult to the point of being nearly always a doomed endeavour unless the exorcist possesses an extremely high degree of sensitivity. A ghost’s soul is totally evaporated when they are killed; they do not find peace or move to the afterlife. This, like other killing spells, places an enormous burden on the caster’s soul. Although killing a ghost is difficult, an exorcism (particularly for Poltergeists and Perceptibles) can be performed by any non-sensitive layman with the proper knowledge and supplies._

_Another way to deal with a ghost is to seal them. This is not a suggested method as, according to sensitives, this method also places a burden on the sealer’s soul, which increases the chances of them becoming a ghost after they die because of the wrong done to the ghost. Sealed ghosts are placed by a magic-using sensitive into a cursed object by way of a ritual spell and a sacrifice by the sealer. The ghost then loses the ability to perceive time passing and the ability to find peace by addressing their regrets and pass on naturally._

_A temporary and safe version of sealing is binding. When a ghost is bound, their spectral energy is attached to an object or location for a length of time determined in the ritual spell. There is no sacrifice involved in a binding ritual. Sensitives often bind ghosts who become a hindrance to their daily life so the ghost cannot follow them, for example, to their workplace._

_Given enough time, a ghost will eventually fade naturally. This is possibly due to a ghost slowly losing the ability to gather and retain spectral energy. If a ghost’s regrets are allayed after death, they can choose to pass on immediately or to remain in the world. If they choose to remain, they will generally fade in time. A ghost in one of the first two Phases will fade in about 100 years. Vengeful and Hollow Hearts will take as long as 300 years to fade, regardless of their strength, especially if they remain in an area with many sensitives and do not kill so frequently as to cause epidemic-scale deaths. In spite of the length of their natural existence, all ghosts will fade—_

“John.”

His reading was interrupted by Sherlock calling his name. Sherlock’s tone was odd, distant.

“You okay?” John asked, putting the papers down.

Sherlock was standing by the fireplace, one hand half-extended towards the skull. His body was bent forward but unmoving, as if he had forgotten what he was doing. Slowly, he reached up and covered his right eye.

“I can see something.”

“What?”

“From my left eye. There’s something there.”

Sherlock’s mouth fell open to cry out, but no sound left his lips. His eyes grew wide.

“What do you see?”

The hand dropped from Sherlock’s face. “I saw… I saw a murder.”

John was on his feet in seconds.

His eyes closed to aid his memory, Sherlock started to speak. “It was… a man. Southeast Asian, I would say, approximately thirty-five. He was in an alley, the walls were red brick, but I couldn’t identify exactly where they were. It was dark, possibly overcast. I could see him being shot.”

“Could you see the shooter?”

“No. I think I was seeing what they could see.”

“What about their hands?”

Sherlock’s eyes squeezed tighter, then opened slowly to fall on John. “I can’t remember their hands. It’s as if the information was erased from my memories.”

“Okay, can you tell me anything else about the victim?”

“He was about six feet tall, short brown hair. He was muscular, involved in some kind of sport or works out regularly. Works in an office environment. Probably unmarried, but the shooter was several feet away, so it’s possible that he had taken off his ring and that I couldn’t see the tan lines.”

“I’ll tell Lestrade. He can see if any similar cases come up.”

\--

In the end, Sherlock had to wait the full three days until the woman’s autopsy to speak with Samuel Green.

John was relieved when that day finally came. He had spent his spare time reading through the papers Mycroft had bought, learning the theory behind spells, exorcisms, and the Phases. The papers also detailed the different forms of supernatural entities; some (demons, Fair folk, and gremlins) were real, others (bigfoot and the Loch Ness Monster) were not. John was shocked to learn that creatures like dragons were real but nearing extinction.

Sherlock had been seemingly dying of boredom after one day, until John suggested he start rearranging his mind palace to accommodate the new information. Sherlock agreed that it was a good idea, but as John watched Sherlock trying to rearrange the Mind Palace, he noticed that Sherlock would frequently lose concentration and would then have to stop to regain his focus before continuing again. When that failed to sufficiently distract him for any length of time, Sherlock decided to start coming to work with John. The four hours Sherlock was at the surgery were far from tedious, but his presence was so distracting that John ended up threatening to bind him to Baker Street (a feat John wasn’t sure if he could pull off) if he did it again.

The trip to Bart’s was a familiar one, though John hadn’t actually been there since Sherlock’s death. They took a taxi, and Sherlock was kind enough to spare John the discomfort of conversing with someone only he could see.

When they arrived at the hospital, Lestrade was waiting outside. “Do you want to go in, John? I don’t want anyone to get suspicious.”

“Is anyone really going to get suspicious that there may be a ghost consulting detective running around?” Sherlock quipped before John could answer.

“We can just say I’m yearning for the good old days,” John said before Sherlock could irritate Lestrade enough to deny him entry into the building—not that it would have done much good if he _did_.

The three men walked in together, but something distracted Sherlock, who suddenly vanished.

Alone in the elevator, Lestrade asked John what had happened.

“He can move around like that, disappearing from one spot and showing up in another.”

“Like the TARDIS?”

John shot him a withering look. “Yes.”

“I’m sure _he_ finds that useful.”

“I just wish he’d warn us before doing it.”

The elevator dinged when they reached the correct floor.

“Where do you think he’s gone?” John asked as they walked to the morgue.

“You know as well as I do.”

When they arrived at the air lock, Lestrade keyed in the code and they walked in. Molly seemed to be writing up her findings.

She looked up when she heard the door open. “Hello, Greg—” she froze when she saw that John was with the detective. “Hi, John.”

Noticing her apprehension, Lestrade rested a hand on John’s shoulder. “Sherlock was working on a case similar to this one when he passed away. I wanted John to take a look at the body and see if it might be connected. Is that all right?”

Molly looked at John for a moment, pity clear in her eyes. After taking a deep breath, she nodded and led them to the body. “Judging by decomposition, she was killed about fifteen years ago. I’ll have to do a little more testing to be certain of the time frame. If we find out who she was and when she went missing, we’ll probably be able to find out more.”

“What was the cause of death?”

“Dehydration, probably. It’s possible she died of starvation.”

John examined the body. He and Sherlock hadn’t investigated many cold cases together, although Sherlock _had_ once said that all unsolved cases were a pressing matter to him.

“What about the mark on her face?”

Molly glanced her clipboard. “I don’t know how it was put there. It’s too perfect to be natural, but there’s no scar tissue and it’s not a tattoo.”

“Can I have copies of the evidence photographs you took of the mark?” John asked.

She hesitated, looking at Lestrade.

“It’s fine with me,” Greg said. “If you’re comfortable with it.”

Emotions played across Molly’s face, but she made up her mind quickly. “There’s a printer in my office.”

John smiled as she walked away. He hated to take advantage of her, but they needed these pictures, especially if Sherlock didn’t show up before they left.

The two men heard Molly gasp.

“Are you okay?” John asked as they followed to where she stood.

Sherlock was standing in front of her. Molly stared at him, her mouth open in shock. The woman shook her head and seemed to collect herself quickly. Turning, she smiled. “I thought I saw a spider on the wall.”

“No, you didn’t.” Sherlock said.

Molly’s face remained neutral but her fists were clenched at her sides.

“You can see him?” John asked, pointing at the ghost.

Molly’s eyes widened. “Yes, but… how can you?”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, you can’t see any of the others, can you?”

John and Lestrade exchanged a look. “Others?”

“This _is_ a morgue.” Somehow, Molly managed to make it sound like the most natural thing in the world that her workplace was haunted.

“Can you always see ghosts, Molly?” Sherlock asked, his eyebrow raised.

She nodded. “It’s more normal than you might think.”

Sherlock peeked into the morgue. “So you can see all four of _them_?”

Molly raised an eyebrow. “Actually, there are six. Two are Poltergeists, but they’re so new that almost no one can see them.”

John smirked.

“She’s here, though, isn’t she?” Sherlock said, nodding at the corpse still on the table in the center of the room.

“Yeah. Over by the sink. I don’t know if she’ll talk, though.”

“Why wouldn’t she?” Sherlock didn’t wait for an answer. He lifted his coat collar and walked to the sink.

A woman stood there, her long hair covering her face. She was rocking back and forth on her feet, her arms wrapped around her stomach.

“Hello,” Sherlock whispered to her.

She looked up. “You… you’re a ghost, too?”

“Yes.”

She looked around. “Where am I?”

“A morgue. We’ve only just found you.”

She stared at the table with her body. “How… how long has it been?”

“What year was it when you died?”

“2001.”

“It’s 2014 now.”

“Oh, God. Stephen, my… my husband. Is he okay?”

“We don’t know who you are. If you tell me, we can help you find out how your husband is.”

“Olivia Cook.”

Turning, Sherlock said aloud, “Lestrade, her name is Olivia Cook. She’s been missing since 2001.” He faced Olivia again, “Sorry about that. Do you know who did that to you?” He gestured towards the mark on her throat.

Olivia’s fingers pressed against her neck. “Yeah.”

“Who?”

“My brother.”

“Why did he do this?”

“He wanted my parents’ money.”

“How did that mark get on you?” When Olivia looked at him with suspicion, Sherlock unbuttoned his shirt. “I’ve got a similar mark.” He showed it to her.

“He had a piece of paper. I was already tied up, and he put it against my throat. I… I couldn’t move after it touched me. Then he said something strange and it lit on fire.

“The fire… it was all over me, but it only burned my neck. The floor caught on fire, too. It burned into a pattern.” She shuddered. “I tried to call for help, but no one heard me. Then… I was there for days, I think. They kind of melded together. Then I woke up, but I was on the floor. I could see myself standing in the room. I was… dead.”

“Did you try to get out then?”

“I couldn’t, not until today.”

“I couldn’t get behind that wall, either,” Sherlock’s voice was distant; half his mind was on the mystery.

\--

John watched as Sherlock continued to talk to the woman. Even though he couldn’t see her, it was strange to see Sherlock behaving the way he was. His method of questioning was normally much more intense.

“They usually won’t talk to me,” Molly said when Sherlock finished talking to the dead woman.

“You’re alive,” he replied in a matter-of-fact tone.

“Will she be okay?” John asked.

“I don’t know. She’s been trapped in that room since her murder.”

“What about her family?”

“She wants to see them, but she’ll probably just wait until her funeral.”

“Thank you, Sherlock,” Molly said, “for being kind to her.”

“I’m not incapable of experiencing empathy.”

“We know,” John said.

“Molly,” Sherlock said, “Did you know the mark on Olivia’s body was a curse mark?”

The woman frowned. “I thought it might be, but I wasn’t sure.”

“Have you ever seen a curse mark like that one?”

Molly shook her head. “I’ve only seen a few before, but they usually look like burns. I’ve never heard of them looking so clean.”

Lestrade returned, ending the call on his phone. “Her husband lives in Brixton. He’ll be informed once DNA testing has confirmed her identity.”

“It’s definitely her,” Sherlock replied.

“I can’t send an officer down on the word of two ghosts. He’ll never believe them if I don’t have proof.”

Sherlock sighed. “That’s true.”

“You’re not usually so concerned about victims.” Lestrade commented, reading the unease in Sherlock’s eyes.

“I can’t usually see them. Like I said, she was trapped in that room for over a decade.”

“Does she remember who killed her?”

“Yes, it was her brother.”

“I’ll make sure we find him,” Lestrade said.

\--

After they left Bart’s, Lestrade drove John and Sherlock to Samuel Green’s house.

The house was impressively large, but not quite as striking as Irene Adler’s residence. When Lestrade knocked, a man answered the door. “Are you Samuel Green?” Lestrade asked him.

He nodded.

“I’m Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade, we spoke on the phone,” he gestured towards John. “This is John Watson, he’s consulting on the case we’re investigating.”

After closing the door before Sherlock could enter the house (forcing him to walk through the door), Samuel let them in and let them to a dining nook in the kitchen.

“So, why are you suddenly interested in my father?” Samuel asked as they sat.

“We’re actually investigating the death of Kieran Barrett,” Lestrade replied. “There were some suspicious circumstances that have been found in multiple other deaths. We were thinking they could be linked.”

“You think it’s the same person? After all this time?”

“We think it may potentially be a serial killer with a copycat.”

Samuel looked at John, “But you’re that blogger guy, right? Didn’t your friend… pass away?”

“He was involved in a similar case just before he died,” John said, trying to ignore the subject of the conversation, who was examining the room and its contents.

“Well, I’ll do whatever I can to help, but I was just a kid when Uncle Kieran died and my father was hardly around after he got out of prison.”

“Your mother remarried while he was incarcerated, yes?”

“She said she could never forgive my father for stealing from the company, but…” he shrugged, “I got the feeling that she was angry because she didn’t have as much money anymore. She took over the company when he went to prison and it failed in under a year.”

“What about your father?”

“Well, he never talked about Uncle Kieran after he was convicted. Mostly, he talked about things I didn’t really understand.”

“What do you mean?”

“He… babbled. He talked about losing control and how it wasn’t really him. I thought it was guilt when I was young, but looking back, I don’t think it was.”

“Ask if he has possessions of his parents I can examine,” Sherlock said, “I’d like to get _real_ information.”

“Did your mother keep a diary or… something we can look at to get some information about your father?” John asked.

“Yeah.” Samuel stood, “I’ll get it for you.”

When he was out of earshot, Sherlock groaned. “This is useless. If _I_ was questioning him, we’d already know everything necessary.”

“Do you know who did it?” John understood his frustration.

“Yes. The mother, obviously. She was in control of the embezzling, as well.”

Samuel returned with a small, leather-bound book. “This is her diary from when she was married to dad.”

“Would you mind if we borrowed it? I can have it returned to you when we’re finished.” Lestrade said.

“That’s fine. It’s just cluttering up the house.”

“We won’t take up any more of your time,” Lestrade said as he shook Samuel’s hand. “Thank you for this.”

Samuel showed them out.

\--

“Take us to Scotland Yard, Lestrade,” Sherlock said as they pulled away from the house.

“Why?”

“I want you to see if there are any other victims with curse marks. This case goes back fifty years, there may be earlier ones.”

“You do realize I’m not your personal chauffer?”

“I also need to look at the diary. She may mention where she received information on the curse mark.”

Lestrade and John exchanged a look.

 --

New Scotland Yard was always a flurry of activity.

Donovan looked shocked when Lestrade walked up, John following behind. “What’s he doing here?”

“Sherlock was working on something similar to that body we found three days ago. I thought he might be able to help.” Lestrade’s tone dared her to argue.

Lestrade closed the blinds of his office after the three of them were inside. “I don’t think we need anyone trying to figure out what we’re doing.”

John started reading through the woman’s diary while Lestrade started looking into the criminal backgrounds of those close to James Connor.

“Sherlock, what do you think of this?” John asked, noticing a page had been ripped out. When he received no answer, he looked up to find Sherlock gone.

“These powers of his are really getting out of hand,” Lestrade said.

“I think he did it on purpose this time.”

They both jumped when Sherlock returned, just after John finished speaking. “I found something. Come to the forensics lab.” With that, he vanished again.

Anderson was just returning to the lab when John and Lestrade got there. His confusion was plain on his face when he saw them.

“Do you need something, sir?” he asked, seeming to carefully ignore John.

“We just wanted to see something. Checking out a thought I had.”

Anderson opened the door, revealing Sherlock, who was leaning down, examining something on the table.

“I’ve been examining the evidence from Olivia Cook’s crime scene,” Sherlock said, clearly oblivious to Anderson’s presence. “The ash found near her feet is strange.”

“Do you need something, sir?” Anderson said, staring expectantly at Lestrade.

“Can you just give us a minute?”

Working his jaw, Anderson nodded, then made his way into his office.

“You were saying?”

Sherlock held up a petri dish. “Anderson hasn’t done a spectral analysis of this ash. Ensure that he does.”

“Why?”

“I believe an identical substance may have been found on my body after I died.”

“Any other similarities?”

“No, although it would certainly help if I could remember my murderer. Then we could question them about where they gained information regarding this spell.”

The door to Anderson’s office opened. “Sorry, sir. I forgot something,” he growled.

“The spectral analysis,” Sherlock said pointedly to Lestrade.

“Anderson, can you do an analysis of the ash found at the crime scene?”

Taking a deep breath, as if to calm himself, Anderson nodded. “Of course. Absolutely.” A note of sarcasm had crept into Anderson’s voice as if it was almost an uncontrollable urge.

Anderson stalked out of the room and John saw Sherlock smirking. “Have you been moving his things?” he hissed.

Sherlock grinned.

“He was doing it at the crime scene, too,” Lestrade murmured.

Sherlock continued his antics when Anderson returned, deducing everything about the man aloud. “You’re quite eager to impress your superiors, since you’re on your best behavior, despite your irritation. I will say the decision to shave off that ridiculous facial hair of yours was a good one.” He paused for a moment, watching the man. “Do you realize you scanned that tissue sample incorrectly?” Walking over to a machine, he reached for the controls. “Shall I reset this for you?”

Anderson slammed his hands on the counter where he was working. “Sherlock Holmes, if you so much as think about touching anything else in this room, I will bind you to a janitor’s closet so you understand the true meaning of ‘boredom’.”

The cause of Anderson’s irritation jumped and spun so quickly that his coat swirled around him and smacked the front of his legs. “ _You_ can see me?”

“Yes,” Anderson said through his teeth.

“Is everyone I’ve ever met a sensitive?” Sherlock said, folding his arms over his chest.

“You may be surprised by how many of us you _have_ met. Now, if you’d kindly shut up, I’ll happily do this analysis for you.” Anderson finished preparing the sample, Sherlock watching like a chastised child. “This shouldn’t take too long.”

“Philip, you’ve known he was a ghost this whole time?” Lestrade asked, pointing at Sherlock.

Pulling off his gloves, the man replied. “Yes.”

“How did you not react to him?”

“Practice.”

“Who else is a sensitive?” Sherlock asked.

“It’s not polite to out others,” Anderson retorted as he tossed his gloves into a bin.

John knew that Sherlock was attempting the wrong approach. “We think his killer might be a sensitive.”

“Killer?” Anderson looked at Sherlock, an eyebrow quirked. “You were killed? I thought it was an accident.”

“We didn’t want anyone to know,” Lestrade said warningly.

“The secret’s safe with me, but I can’t think of any sensitives who would _actually_ _kill_ him.” He glared at Sherlock, “Quite a few of us have thought about it, certainly, but killing is very dangerous for most of us.”

“Dangerous?”

“When we kill, especially when we kill unnecessarily, it adds weight to our souls. For the most part, the only sensitives who would kill you are those involved in dark magic.”

“Why have I never noticed your abilities?” Sherlock asked, looking more offended by the minute.

“Sensitives learn to distance themselves from people like you. We _must_ seem unremarkable. The days of the witch burnings are over, but it’s still dangerous to be known.”

“That’s why you made yourself seem like an idiot? So I wouldn’t get close to you and notice something was amiss?”

“It’s one of the older tricks. Your brother suggested it.”

“ _Mycroft_ did?”

“I was… spoken to soon after I met you. Your brother wanted to make sure I wouldn’t tell you about the supernatural and I didn’t see any reason to go against what he wanted. He said you don’t like wasting your time with idiots. I felt it was just easier than the alternatives.”

Sherlock’s jaw fell open.

“I think you’ve rendered him speechless, Anderson,” John said. “Congratulations.”

“But what about those ridiculous theories when he faked his suicide?” Lestrade asked.

Anderson scuffed one of his shoes against the floor. “I realized after he jumped that I was wrong about accusing him of being a fake. I was seeing what I wanted so see, instead of reality. I…tried to contact him.”

“You had a séance?”

Shaking his head, Anderson responded, “That’s not the right word for it, but in layman’s terms, it’s not entirely inaccurate.” He flicked his fingers and his hand took on a bluish hue. “My powers are pretty weak, but I can detect spirits and other… creatures very easily. If I’m familiar with whatever I’m looking for, I can usually find its exact location.”

“So you could feel that Sherlock was alive?”

“Basically, yes.”

“Can you track creatures with which you are not familiar?” Sherlock asked, finally recovering.

“I need quite a bit of information. I’m not a bloodhound.”

“His killer?” John asked.

“I’d have to touch something they touched. There _are_ presences other than your own that have adhered themselves to you,” Anderson said to Sherlock, “I can try figuring out who they belong to.”

“Anything helps.”

Anderson nodded and reached for Sherlock, his hand hovering above Sherlock’s chest. “You might feel some pain.” The blue light returned to his hand and he closed his eyes.

John heard a tiny gasp come from the ghost.

“I have to go deeper. There’s…there’s something blocking me.” His fingers passed through Sherlock’s chest.

Suddenly, a scream tore from Sherlock’s lips. (John later realized he could _feel_ the anguish in Sherlock’s voice.) He staggered backwards and Anderson retracted his hand just as suddenly. His fingers were an odd, grey color, the flesh seeming to be cracking apart.

“I’ve never felt anything like that before,” Anderson whispered, cradling his hand to his chest. “Someone… Some _thing_ doesn’t want its presence known.”

Sherlock was doubled over, his hands clutched to his chest as he gasped for breath. “Did you feel _anything_ we can work with?”

He nodded. “You’re his Maker,” Anderson said, his eyes meeting John’s.

“But… doesn’t a Maker have to be a powerful sensitive? I didn’t even know ghosts _existed_ until a few days ago!”

“Sometimes, not often, a sensitive’s willpower can cause a ghost to be Made. The sensitive must be very powerful in magical arts _and_ strong-willed.”

“What about whatever… stopped you?”

As he examined his hand, Anderson whispered, “There were two souls, intertwined together. I’ve never felt anything so powerful. The subordinate soul was alive and mostly normal, if very powerful, but the dominant soul was… wrong.”

“Wrong?”

“I know the Phases very well—I’ve encountered ghosts in all of them. This was a ghost that _wasn’t_ one of the Phases. It was old, too old.” He rubbed his fingers together. “I shouldn’t have survived that.”

“You’re lucky to be so powerful,” Lestrade said.

“No.” Anderson’s eyes were fearful. “It _let me_ live.”

Sherlock straightened. “Are you sure that one of those souls was the soul of my killer?”

“I can’t imagine any other reason they would be present on you. The subordinate soul probably has a piece of you. I assume that’s what happened to your eye.”

“We think it was his memories,” John said.

“That would do it. It’s possible you have some of the holder’s memories. For most people, an exchange is necessary for memory theft.”

“Some of their memories?”

“They’ll probably appear as visions. You may see them when you’re awake, in your left eye.”

Sherlock still looked a little shaken, but he nodded. “I think I experienced that a few days ago.”

“You said my soul is present in his, is that normal?” John asked, fearing he may have harmed his friend.

“That’s fine until he progresses further through the Phases. Eventually, he will try to kill you, but it’s possible that day is still far off.”

“And then we have to exorcise him?”

“Or destroy me in some other way,” Sherlock answered. “John, if there is _any_ risk to you—”

“I’m _not_ killing you, Sherlock.” Their eyes met until John looked away, scrubbing a hand across his face.

Anderson sighed. “You may not have to kill him. Solving his murder may help him pass on.”

“Yes,” Sherlock adjusted his coat and jacket, “and the sooner we get more information, the sooner I can solve my murder.” He left without another word.

“Thanks,” John said to Anderson as he followed the ghost from the lab.

Lestrade paused before leaving. “Thanks, Philip.” He said. “I know neither of them seem appreciative, but they are.”

“I know.”

\--

Sherlock wasn’t in Lestrade’s office when John got there. He assumed there was only one other place Sherlock would want to go, so he thanked Greg for his help and declined an offer for a ride home. John needed time to think about everything.

Thankfully, the cabbie was not particularly chatty. The ride was brief and John planned his words for Sherlock while staring out the window.

Mrs. Hudson had apparently gone to see Mrs. Turner while they had been away, because the flat was silent as John entered.

Sherlock was sitting in his chair, his hands moving slightly. John understood it as ‘playing around in the mind palace’ behavior, so he left Sherlock alone. Nearly three quarters of an hour had gone by when Sherlock acknowledged John’s presence.

“You’re angry.”

“A bit.”

Sherlock didn’t say anything, so John continued.

“I need you to understand that I simply _can’t_ kill you.”

“John—”

“I know it might be necessary, but I can’t go through losing you again. I can’t be the one to destroy you.” John felt his hand trembling, so he curled his fingers in a tight fist. “Can we agree to leave this until we have to deal with it?”

His mismatched eyes narrowed and Sherlock nodded. It took John a moment to realize he was listening to something else.

There was a knock at the door. “I hadn’t realized Mrs. Hudson was home,” John as he walked to the door.

Sherlock jumped up from his chair. “John, no—!”

But it was too late. John had opened the door, revealing Charles Augustus Magnussen standing past the threshold. He entered the room without invitation. “Good afternoon, Doctor Watson,” he said, his cold eyes rolling from John to Sherlock. “Good afternoon, Mr. Holmes. What a surprise it is to see you here.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Posted 30th August 2014


End file.
